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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112099">Grace Notes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta'>Apsacta</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grace Notes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twosetviolin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:15:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apsacta/pseuds/Apsacta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There’s a hand on top of Brett’s now, warm, steady, familiar still, even after all this time.<br/>He glances right. Just one look.<br/>“Do you trust me?” Eddy asks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>(Eddy says “think about Shostakovich”, but Brett doesn’t want to. Brett only wants to think about music, and about Eddy.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddy Chen/Brett Yang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grace Notes [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1853476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>285</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>185</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. this is how it ends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please take end notes into consideration.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 25 *</p><p>
  <em>It’s an old church. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett finds it easy enough. There, just past the corner, a few steps away from the square, snuggled between two ugly buildings, wooden door creaked open. It’s small but luminous inside, tall, tall walls with big glass windows, white marbles and painted frescoes, their colours pastel, faded with time. It’s quiet, too. A heavy silence. His footsteps reverberate in the empty space, echoes against walls, as he walks down the aisle. It must be empty, he thinks at first. </em>
</p><p><em>He thinks ‘ </em>why here<em>?' as he takes a seat on a wobbly wooden pew, somewhere in the middle of the nave. A strange place for an even stranger meeting. </em></p><p>
  <em>But the note said… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It must be empty, he thinks at first, but it isn’t. In the choir, somewhat hidden by the remnants of the pulpit, there is a grand piano. At the piano, there is a man, quiet at first, still like one of the statues in the alcoves, his fingers barely hovering above the keyboard, not touching the keys. His clothing is patched and worn and there is a five-day stubble on his cheeks, but Brett recognises him anyway. He recognises him because he used to be a soloist, before. World-class. Immense fame. Forgotten now, of course. But Brett remembers. He saw him on stage, ages ago, in another lifetime almost, sheer talent, pure brilliance, now just a distant memory. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This man is not who he came to see, so Brett looks away, almost shy. Decline should be a private thing. He sags a bit on the pew, elbows on knees, face in hands. He’s exhausted, and vaguely wonders if he looks as old as he feels. In the choir, the pianist lightly drops his fingers on the keys. The first notes break the silence, clear, light, so light, floating like feathers. It’s Schubert’s Ave Maria. Brett hasn’t heard that piece in a long time. He doubts anybody has.  </em>
</p><p><em>‘ </em>Maybe coming here was a mistake<em>,’ he thinks. </em></p><p>
  <em>Yet the note said…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The piece progresses and Brett lets himself enjoy the music, even if only for a moment. The steady left hand, the luminous melody, rising, the precise notes, breathtakingly beautiful, slightly held back for effect. The last notes linger in the air long after the piece ends. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you think he misses it?” asks a voice to Brett’s right, and it’s Brett’s heart that misses a beat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s too scared to look up, keeps his face hidden, so the voice continues. “He’s here every day. He plays for an hour and then leaves. Do you think he misses it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Misses what?” Brett asks, a quiver in his voice. His hands drop to his sides, come to rest on the wooden bench. He’s still too scared to turn his head, though. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Performing. The public. The applause.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Every day.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the choir, the pianist has switched to Liszt’s Liebestraum. The notes tumble from his fingers with the same precision as all those years ago. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s a hand on top of Brett’s now, warm, steady, familiar still, even after all this time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He glances right. Just one look.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you trust me?” Eddy asks.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warning: it’s a rant. </p><p>Hello. A word, before we go further. It’s a bittersweet story. It’s not always going to make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. So if you’ve been feeling kind of down, lately, maybe it’s best to skip this one. The plan was to write a cute story about two boys falling in love in music school. It didn’t work. This story is mostly about loss, regrets, and dictatorship. It started as a cute twoset story, it morphed into my feelings spilling all over. </p><p>Thank you for your time. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 1 *</p><p>The music building is tall, grey and austere, and it’s everything Brett thinks a music school should not look like. Where is the grace, the elegance, the passion? A building dedicated to the arts should not look like a prison, right?  There should be beauty, it should be something nice enough to inspire students, no? But then, Brett’s no architect, so he wouldn’t know right from wrong when it comes to university designs. For all he knows, the music building looks exactly like it’s supposed to look.</p><p>Next to him, his mother reads excerpts of a tourist guide in a loud voice, commenting on the building dates, the architectural features, which Brett finds disappointingly rigid, the famous alumni, and all sorts of vaguely interesting trivia. A couple of steps behind them, his dad, jacket casually thrown over one shoulder, is lighting a cigarette – must you, Brett’s mother asks, must you smoke like that all the time, what about cancer, what about your health, what about… – and he takes one hard look at the building as he blows smoke up in the air.</p><p>“Ugly,” he says, terse, and Brett can only agree. Ugly as fuck.</p><p>“Still,” Brett’s mother interjects, “good thing he got in, right? The prestige…”</p><p>“Good, good thing,” his father nods, and Brett wonders what he really thinks of it.</p><p>He can never really tell, with his dad. His mum’s easy enough to read, when you know which signs to look for. And besides, she’ll tell you what she’s thinking, anyway. She’ll tell you about the neighbours (<em>why must you act that way, act like a fool, what will they think?</em>), she’ll tell you about auntie so and so (<em>her son’s a doctor, her daughter’s a lawyer, she has a grandchild now</em>), she’ll tell you about what she wants (<em>work harder, study, practice, no, no, no</em>). His dad is a different story altogether, poker face and impenetrable eyes. He’s not one for praise, but then, thankfully, he’s not one for criticism either. Still, Brett never knows what he really thinks.</p><p>They continue their tour of the university, study rooms and libraries and practice rooms and auditoriums and a large concert hall, and they get to the dorms, eventually. His parents abandon him there, after a flurry of recommendations from his mother and an awkward pat on the back from his father. He gets in with his heavy suitcase, kind of uncomfortable and uncertain. It’s different, really, being on his own. He can feel freedom tingling the back of his neck.</p><p>Brett’s new room is small, even by university standards. It doesn’t look like it should be big enough for two, and yet... There are two beds, two desks, two wardrobes and a small door that presumably leads to the bathroom. A large window, too, looking out over the patch of grass in-between the buildings. There’s a cherry tree in the middle, old, large, but it’s not in bloom now, won’t be for a very long time. On each side of the window, there are thick curtains, bright red. An interesting colour choice, for sure.</p><p>There’s no one there, so he chooses his bed first, the one closest to the window. That way he can look outside from his desk, watch the trees and the birds and the constant trickle of people coming in and out of buildings. He unpacks dutifully, clothes first, and then violin, and a few mangas that he puts on the desk, next to his computer. Then he flops on the bed with his phone and plays candy crush for an hour.</p><p>His roommate arrives later that evening, a tall and lanky guy with a mop of brown hair and glasses that match Brett’s.</p><p>“I’m Jason,” he says, extending a hand for Brett to shake.</p><p>Brett likes Jason, he decides quickly enough. Sure, the first few weeks are a bit awkward. What do you say to someone who you’ve been stuck with purely by coincidence? But it turns out that Jason doesn’t mind awkward or silent. Jason doesn’t mind Brett going crazy to let out steam every once in a while. Jason doesn’t mind much, it turns out. He’s easy to talk to, doesn’t make a fuss, and even if they don’t have much in common, they can get along just fine. All Jason asks for is time to study, and practice his cello. He practises a hell of a lot. Too much, perhaps, in Brett’s opinion. Forty hours a day, he thinks once.</p><p>“I have to,” Jason says one day, a confession, a moment of weakness, perhaps. “My parents. They don’t tolerate failure. If I’m not the best, then I’m nothing.”</p><p>It’s unhealthy, Brett thinks. He knows his fair share about demanding parents, but no matter what, his have never made him feel like he was nothing. He’d like to bring this up to his roommate, but doesn’t know how. After all, maybe Jason is right and Brett’s wrong. Maybe he’s wasting his time, doing all the other things that he does.</p><p>Jason clamps down after that. He never talks about his parents again. Practises more. All day. All night, sometimes. He stays in the practice room until morning, and the other side of Brett’s room remains empty and silent. It’s a one-way ticket to RSI, Brett thinks, but he doesn’t say.</p><p>Jason’s practice schedule puts Brett’s to shame. Even if Brett practises a lot, too. Sometimes he skips classes so he can find an empty practice room for an extra hour. He doesn’t go to aural class once, figures he might as well study the book the evening before the exam, same difference. He skips half the singing classes. He’s not a singer, isn’t there to sing, doesn’t care. He practises. A lot. But he makes friends, too. A few. He doesn’t spend all day and all night on his violin. He likes to party, sometimes. Goes out a few nights, stays in the next day, hungover, doesn’t touch his violin. It’s fun, anyway. He feels freer now than when he was at home.</p><p>It’s easy, this new life at university. It’s like there’s a weight that’s been lifted off his shoulders. It’s not difficult to find people to talk to, about music, or about anything else, really. Brett discovers quickly that he can charm just about anyone, if he’s funny enough, if he smiles a certain way. He can get girls to do just about anything, and guys to agree to even the most stupid shit, and he can even charm professors into forgiving his tardiness, once or twice. It’s smooth sailing, from then on.</p><p>And then, out of the blue, after five months, Jason breaks down. They find him in a practice room one morning, crying, crying and not able to stop. His parents come by that afternoon to take him home. They don’t even look at him as they pull him into the car.</p><p>The other side of the room remains empty for the rest of the year, after that, and Brett’s left wondering if there’s anything that he could have done to prevent it.</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I feel like I owe you an explanation, if you’ve not given up on this: one chapter will be in the past (university), the next in the present (sort of). The first chapter will come back towards the end of the story.<br/>Oh God, it’s not making any sense when I tell it like that, does it?<br/>I promise that everything will come together, and it should (hopefully) make sense.<br/>Honestly, I’m not sure about this one.<br/>Thanks for your time. Have a very nice day. Take care.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 14 *</p><p>
  <em>Orchestra rehearsals are quickly turning into Brett’s own personal hell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s one of these new composers that they are rehearsing, and he hates the piece. There is no grace, no colour or variation in it. It’s loud and martial, with horns blaring, snare drums, bass drums and timpani a constant roll in the back. This speaks about grandiose power and inflexible leadership and it chills him to the bone. For the violin section, it’s long semibreves after long semibreves and it’s the most boring thing. It’s not good, this piece. It’s numbing his mind into apathy, and the constant drum messes with his heart rate. From a brief look towards the rest of the section, Brett can tell that they’re all feeling it. All, except perhaps their concertmaster, sitting next to him with feverish eyes, chest puffed and chin pointing forward.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He hates it so much that some evenings, he wants to claw his way out of his own skin. This wasn’t what he was hoping for, when he dreamed about a job in orchestra.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’d give anything for a chance to play something different, right now. One of the romantic composers maybe. Mendelssohn, Schumann, Liszt even. He dreams about pieces by Lalo or Wieniawsky. While he’s mindlessly playing repeated notes, he thinks back to older, happier times more often than he should. Hours spent rehearsing Sarasate. Ysaye six, nearly making him cry. Bubble teas. Double stops. Left hand pizz. Ricochet, sautillé, martelé. Anything, anything that isn’t what he is enduring now. Paganini. Bubble teas. Playing the Tchaikovsky violin concerto in his small room at university. Eddy, lying on his back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, giving lazy feedback. No. Not that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The piece ends triumphantly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The conductor thanks them, and Brett stands up with everyone else. Nauseous. One hand holding his violin and bow, one hand pressed against his forehead, he looks around. Is anyone else feeling this warm, this clammy? Apparently not, because they’re all trickling backstage, chattering away. He’s ready to slip away too, grab his coat, and disappear into the buzz of the street until he reaches the monotone comfort of his apartment, when he is stopped.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The man is here on a mission, determined. Some official business of one sort or the other. Brett can tell immediately from his appearance. Black shoes, grey suit with matching tie, neat haircut and tight-lipped smile.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Assistant-concertmaster Yang?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett shudders. The tone is polite, civil, the face open, eyes frank and direct, and yet there is something there, something that makes him feel… icky. Uncertain. Shy and unassured like he hasn’t been in a long, long time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah?” he answers. He’d be miles away from here, if he could.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A smile. Showing just enough teeth, polite, inviting. Fake, obviously.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I come on behalf of your alma mater,” the man says. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s an awkward silence for a second. Then: “You what? My… what?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, yes. Your old music university?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett shakes his head. What the fuck is it with those dudes and their fancy words? If you want to say something, just say it. The man is still looking at him, like he’s expecting some kind of reaction. Brett has no idea what he wants. Some kind of donation, perhaps? Wrong person, then, my dude. Brett doesn’t have the means or the desire to make any kind of contribution to that place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’ve recently lost Professor Stern,” the man says.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“My condolences.” Brett has no idea who the fuck that could be. He doesn’t really want to bring back memories from his time in university so he can piece together who on earth Stern was.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Apparently, his ignorance shows on his face, because he’s immediately offered an explanation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Violin tutoring, for first years?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, yes.” The memory comes back. A serious old man, with a mane of white hair and a tweed jacket, pretty much the exact picture you would paint of a university professor. A damned good violinist, too, even in his old age. He used to teach orchestral literature, too, Brett remember now. Not that he remembers much about orchestral literature. He had other things in mind, at that time. Shit tutor, though. Not an ounce of teaching skills. He was ancient, even when Brett was a student. It’s a wonder he’s lasted that long. That still doesn’t tell Brett what this is about.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Which leaves us with a vacancy…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh...” He’s slowly starting to see where this is going. He doesn’t like it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Professor Emerson’s picking up the teaching charges, but we need a new violin tutor. The university is trying to modernize its staff. We need new blood.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh, huh…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is a game they’re playing now. They both know what’s going on, but neither is going to speak first.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You did write your dissertation on making classical music more accessible, right? When you were still with us…” The man speaks first. Brett savours the victory.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I already have a job.” He’s trying to be firm, but polite. You don’t say no just like that, he knows it too well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ah yes. But, between you and me, orchestra jobs aren’t what they were, are they? No certainty... You know how it goes... One minute you’re poised to become the next concertmaster, the next ... You know how much a proper education matters... Think about our offer.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And with that, Brett knows. He never really had a choice.</em>
</p><p>*</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 2 *</p><p>Brett’s second year is the year when everything changes.</p><p>It starts off easy enough, on a nice, sunny morning. Everything is still very quiet on campus. Most students aren’t back yet, and those who are there are still half asleep. So is Brett, to be honest. He’s feeling more dead than alive, trailing his heavy suitcase behind him, bubble tea that was supposed to wake him up in one hand. He’s tired as fuck. That probably explains why everything feels a little bit out of place, like the light is a little too bright and the sky a little too white.</p><p>He didn’t have a choice, though. He had to come back this early. He’s not hopeful, or dumb, enough to think that he’ll be allowed to keep the room to himself. So, he’s got the firm intention to get there first and reclaim the nicest side as his.</p><p>And that’s how he meets Eddy. Because when Brett painfully gets to the room, it is to find the door already open. He pauses outside for a minute, giving himself time to bite back a few chosen curse words and to listen to the bits of conversation that he hears inside. His first thoughts about his new roommate are not very charitable.  From what he hears – a complicated conversation between the new guy and his mother – it’s easy to guess that Brett’s going to spend the year stuck with a first year, and that… well, it’s just not fair. He doesn’t deserve to spend his time babysitting some random first year. That’s some special kind of bullshit that whoever’s attributing rooms has pulled on him.</p><p>So yeah, Brett’s first thoughts about his new roommate are angry ones, because he’d hoped that he would get to bunk with one of his friends – oh, the chaos, the excitement, the fun that could have ensued. And instead, there’s this kid in the room. And apparently even his mother thinks that he won’t be able to survive university on his own, from the way she babies him.</p><p>He pushes through the door, suitcase in tow, with a wince on his face, and if the dude’s embarrassed that he gets caught looking like a child with his mother fussing over him, well, tough luck. He’s not Brett’s responsibility.</p><p>“Hi,” he says, because he’s been raised properly and despite all his efforts to appear nonchalant and cool, he can still hear his mum’s voice scolding him in the back of his mind. “I’m Brett.”</p><p>The new guy looks at him with hopeful eyes, like Brett’s going to be the one who delivers him from his mum. And Brett really doesn’t want to be mean, but he can’t help it. He takes one look at him and he immediately thinks ‘puppy’.</p><p>He’s not even exaggerating. He remembers a day, a few years ago, when some of his relatives came to visit his mum, and they had a puppy with them. A tiny little thing, wagging his tail and running into everyone’s legs, and Brett spent the day playing with it in the garden. It was not that different from what he’s looking at now. He’s pretty sure that if he doesn’t do anything, the new dude’s going to latch onto him for the rest of the year. And that’s the last thing Brett wants.</p><p>“I’m Eddy,” the kid says, and he’s shy, Brett can tell just by the way he looks at the ground immediately after he speaks.</p><p>“Yep,” Brett says, and he nods, and he doesn’t know what else to do or say.</p><p>Eddy’s mother is still there, and she’s looking at Brett like she’s expecting something. It’s awkward for Brett, and it’s even more awkward for Eddy, judging from the blush on his cheeks that steadily makes his way down his throat to disappear into the collar of his shirt.</p><p>Eddy’s got doe eyes and bunny teeth, and Brett can tell just by looking at him that he’s the kind of kid who likes to please people. And sure, maybe it’s unfair of Brett to think that, but he can’t help it. Eddy’s got <em>good kid</em> written all over his face.</p><p>Eddy’s mother eventually leaves her son alone, after reminding him at least a hundred times that she’s just a phone call away. Brett proceeds to stake a claim on the nice side of the room. Eddy says he doesn’t care, but that’s a lie. Brett’s seen him looking longingly at the window. But Brett’s got the advantage of age here, and he’ll use it if he must. He’s not that weak that he’ll fall for the first pair of pretty eyes.</p><p>The plan, Brett decides as he distractedly listens to Eddy introduce himself, is to be nice enough to the kid so that living together doesn’t turn into a chore, but not nice enough that Eddy starts thinking that they’re friends or something. He’s not going to babysit him, despite what Eddy’s mother seemed to have been hoping for. Fuck that. Brett’s worked hard enough to build himself a reputation. He’s not going to throw it all away and be known as the guy who has a kid following him around everywhere.</p><p>Be nice and friendly, but don’t be friends. That’s the plan.</p><p>That’s the plan, but lo and behold, it takes Brett less than two months to completely fall for Eddy’s cute puppy charm.</p><p>He’s so, <em>so</em> disappointed in himself for that.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t babysit a first year, Brett. Don’t abandon your friends to spend all your time giving advice to some random kid, Brett. </em>
</p><p>Well, easy to say. But start-of-term Brett hadn’t lived with Eddy for months, so he didn’t know. What else could Brett have done? There’s only so many hopeful glances and toothy smiles that one man can take before surrendering entirely. What exactly was Brett supposed to do, when Eddy’s eyes sparkle every time he gets in the room, when Eddy laughs good-naturedly at every shitty joke that Brett makes? Is it vain that the quiet way in which Eddy looks up to him, takes his advice, admires him, flatters Brett’s ego? Yes, sure. It is. But Brett’s not above wanting to be admired.</p><p>Two months in, and Brett’s already prepared to give Eddy all the advice he wants, teach him new fingerings, tell him which lectures are worth his time and which ones aren’t.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>(“Dude, I tell you, don’t bother going to orchestral literature class.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Eddy stops at the door one hand already on the handle. He looks at Brett suspiciously. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Are you telling me that because it really isn’t worth my time, or is only because you need a sidekick and none of your friends are ready to follow you?” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>A smile stretches Brett’s lips. Eddy’s eyes are sparkling. He’s only just protesting for show. Brett knows Eddy will follow, no matter what Brett comes up with.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“I fail to see how dancing to the rite of spring in public will be a nice complement to your presentation,” Eddy protests. “It’s going to be embarrassing. People are going to look at us weird.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“It’s going to be fun. You need to have fun, Eddy, otherwise you’ll burn out.” When he says it, Brett genuinely means it. He’s not forgotten what happened to his other roommate. And Eddy…well, it’s not the same.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“You’re sure I don’t need to go to orchestral literature?” The good kid part of Eddy is fighting hard to resist. Brett knows how to convince him, though.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah. Just look the piece up on youtube or something. It’ll be fine.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be listening to you.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Brett laughs, then wriggles his eyebrows, smiles a little crooked. “Come on, Eddy, you’re going to have fun, I promise.”)</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Two months in, and Brett’s already dragging Eddy along at parties, because the dude needs to loosen up. He practices too much, and Brett’s not about to lose two roommates in two years to a breakdown.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>(“I don’t like parties, Brett. They give me anxiety.” Eddy’s voice is a little whiny, and not for the first time, Brett thinks ‘baby’, but there’s no malice in his thoughts. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“You give me anxiety,” he replies. “You’re going to end up like my first roommate. I’m not going to let that happen.”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Aww, you’re all protective.” Eddy’s trying to play it off as a joke, but Brett’s not dumb. He can see that he’s flattered. After all, he’s been pining for Brett’s attention since day one. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah, well, someone has to teach you how to live. Besides, it’ll only be ten minutes.”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“You always say that. And then we’re not back in the room before 3 AM. And you know I’ll sleep until noon then.”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Eddy’s not wrong. Brett never tricks him intentionally, but he knows that Eddy wouldn’t go if there wasn’t a time limit set, at least in his head. And he generally ends up enjoying himself, anyway. He just needs a little push, that’s all.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Not my fault if you can’t set up your alarm properly. Come on, Eddy. Let’s go. You don’t even have class tomorrow. I promise, the moment you tell me you want to leave, we leave.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“You promise you’re not going let me get drunk again?”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Eddy looks at him with puppy eyes, and Brett shakes his head.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Nah, can’t promise that. You’re hilarious when you’re drunk. And weirdly touchy. But that’s fine.”)</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Two months in, and Brett already feels like an overprotective mother, worried for nothing if Eddy comes home later that he usually does.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>(“Dude, there you are! I tried to call you twice.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound needy and worried, but that’s how it comes out anyway. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Eddy laughs. His eyes are shining and he doesn’t seem to realise that he’s made Brett genuinely worry.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah, sorry, my bad. Battery died. I was with that girl from my class. You know, the cellist with the really shiny hair?” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>The casual way Eddy answers doesn’t sit too well with Brett.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah, well remember to charge up your phone, next time you go on a date.”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Aww, you were worried. It’s cute.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah, well I’m not going to worry anymore, if that’s how you react. Next time you can be dead in a ditch, for all I care.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Aww, Brettybae, don’t be mad.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“As if..”)</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Two months in, and Brett’s acting even more chaotic and reckless than he normally does just because he knows it’ll make Eddy laugh when he hears the story. And who cares if Brett loses an hour of practice to some stupid violin challenge, when Eddy’s laughing so loud that he’s crying and knocking his head against the wall and has to let Brett check the bump on the back of his head.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>(“This sounds so bad!” Eddy’s laughing with open mouth, slowly melting in on himself as Brett tries to sight-read a piece that Eddy’s chosen while simultaneously playing with swapped hands. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Nah. Second chance. Give me a second chance. I can do it.” </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Brett’s not even sure Eddy’s hearing him, with how he’s laughing his ugliest laugh. He jumps a little when there’s a loud noise and Eddy’s suddenly holding the back of his head. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Ouch, hit my head.”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Dude!”</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“It hurts.” Eddy’s eyes are watering. “I think I’ve broken my head,” he says in a pitiful voice. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“You’re a big baby, hey,” Brett says. He jokes, but he’s a bit alarmed, and when he pushes Eddy’s hair out of the way to check, he does so with shaky hands. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>“There. Nothing. Baby.” )</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>So yes, second year is the year everything changes. Second year is the year Eddy appears, and it’s pretty much uncontrolled chaos from then on.</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Past, present, past, present, ... yeah?</p><p>Thanks so much for your time. Take care of yourself and have a very nice day.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 15 *</p><p>
  <em>Brett’s eyes are trained on an old painting hanging behind the desk, and the dean’s drawl is merely a murmur in the background for a moment. Maybe it’s the aftermath of a battle or something, with a crowd of victors and defeated in the front, but Brett’s attention keeps drifting to the background, to the clearer colours and the landscape obscured by coils of smoke. It’s the smoke especially that captures his attention, but the whole thing is weird, out of place, almost, against the white and otherwise bare background of the wall. </em>
</p><p>‘Thank you for joining us. We know it was rather sudden<em>’ the dean says as he finishes his speech, and Brett’s attention snaps back to the man in front of him. He feels like he’s going to choke from indignation. It’s not like this has exactly been </em>his<em> choice. Three days after his conversation with the university representative, he was receiving a call from the ministry of education. Five days later, his orchestra had demoted him to second violins, last desk. A lifetime of efforts ruined in the span of a week. </em></p><p>
  <em>He should have seen it coming, really. He should have seen it coming and he should have listened, years ago. Well, fuck him for that. It’s not like they never talked about it. But Brett was so young, so naïve, back then. He didn’t really care. Didn’t really think. All that mattered was to play good music, to get into a prestigious orchestra. Too late now for regrets anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Yang?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Again, he’s called back to reality by the older man’s voice. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, sorry. What was it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I was just making sure that you know the requirements for the rest of year.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett nods. “I have received your mail, yes.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Good. Very good. You must be pleased to be back in our midst.” </em>
</p><p><em>Pleased is not exactly the word that Brett would have chosen. Pleased is too enthusiastic. Pleased is too… well, it would imply that he felt something about it, other than numbness. If he were honest, he’d reply </em>‘fuck no, this is the last place on earth where I want to be’<em>. But if he spends too long thinking about it, then he’s forced to come to terms with the fact that there really isn’t any place he particularly wants to be. And he’d rather not start looking into that mirror. </em></p><p>
  <em>“I have good memories of my time here,” he replies instead. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s not a lie. He does. He has wonderful memories. Maybe the best of his life, in all honesty. And that’s the problem, really. Because there’s nothing now that can compare to what he had over a decade ago. It’s sad and a little pathetic and, again, something he’d rather not think too much about. He just hopes he can keep whatever memory’s threatening to resurface at bay, at least until the end of the semester. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Excellent, then.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The older man stares at Brett for a moment and he feels an unpleasant shiver down his spine. There’s something in that stare. Almost like he’s trying to warn Brett about something. It’s probably in his head, though. He’s getting paranoid, he knows it. But it’s hard not to be, given the circumstances. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We do have records of your time here,” he adds. It doesn’t sound like a good thing. “You’ll find that some things have changed. For the better, might I add.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett’s at a loss for words. Why does everything that’s coming out of this man’s mouth sound like a threat? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s saved from having to answer by a knock on the door. A young man comes in.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, here’s Christopher. He’s going to show you to your office.” </em>
</p><p><em>It’s the weirdest way to be dismissed, but Brett feels too numb to really feel annoyed about it. He’s still stuck on the ‘</em>you’ll find that some things have changed<em>’ bit.</em></p><p>
  <em>Christopher introduces himself as Professor Stern’s TA as he leads Brett through corridors that are too painfully familiar for comfort. He’s young and sounds incredibly enthusiastic as he tells Brett about the schedules of various private lessons. Brett’s never felt so old and tired before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They’re rather incomplete, I’m afraid,” he says about Brett’s predecessor’s notes. “Professor Stern was not as diligent as before, towards the end. Still, I’m sure you should easily see for yourself what is needed. Ah, here’s your office.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He lets Christopher show him around – there’s not much to see, really, the room is tiny – before he sends him away with a grateful smile and a murmured thank you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Once he’s left alone in the room, he turns to examine the office again. It’s the first time he has one. First time he needs one too, to be honest. It’s an okay place, he supposes, with a bookcase and a nice desk. It feels a little cold and impersonal, but it’s nothing that a few decorative touches couldn’t improve. If Brett could be bothered to decorate, that is. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>On the desk, Christopher has prepared Professor Stern’s personal notes on the students’ progresses, as well as a schedule for the month to come. Brett makes a note to thank him for his preparedness, even though he’ll probably forget about it before he sees him again. He glances at the schedule but leaves the notes where they are. He’d rather form his own opinion. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The atmosphere in the room quickly starts to feel a little stuffy and uncomfortable, as the memories of his previous conversation resurface. It’s the part where the dean talked about records of Brett’s time as a student that doesn’t sit well with him. It makes him uneasy and, again, unnecessarily paranoid about everything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps with a bit of fresh air, he’ll see things in a different light. There’s a large window in his new office, and he wonders what the view will be. He doesn’t expect anything nice, but he sure hopes that he won’t be stuck overlooking the parking lot or something. Though, with his luck, that’s probably where they’ve put him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He opens the blinds, and his swear gets caught in his throat. There, in the middle of a patch of grass, is a large, old cherry tree. It’s in full bloom. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s some special kind of bullshit, for sure. </em>
</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hi! thank you for your time. have a very nice day :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 3 *</p><p>With the return of the warmer months, everything on campus gets mellower. It’s nice, bright, sunny. The temperatures are perfect to spend some time outside. It’s not too cold, but it isn’t warm enough to be unbearable yet. Students flock outside to study in the sun or just chat and drink beer between classes. They know that they have a relatively short window before the scorching heat confines them back indoor.</p><p>Brett’s no different. After his rehearsal, he plops down in the grass in front of the dorms. The tree is providing him with a nice shade, and everything around is still relatively calm, so he gets his laptop and some bubble tea out of his bag, and gets ready to get some work done. He’s got some paper to write for music history, and with the abysmal grade he received on the last thing he handed back, he can’t afford to fuck this one up.</p><p>He’d work in his room, but Eddy’s been freaking out about something all morning, and Brett figures he’ll let Eddy sort his shit out before he goes back. He’s tried to offer his roommate his help, but Eddy didn’t want any of it. Nothing to worry about, though. Brett reckons that Eddy will be fine. In some aspects, Eddy is a bit like a cat. Just like a cat will come to you only when he decides to, Eddy will tell you what bothers him only if he feels like it. It takes some getting used to, but Brett’s got Eddy pretty much figured out by now. He knows when to push, and he knows when to leave Eddy alone. And this morning was one of the leave-him-alone-until-he-asks-for-help-or-sorts-it-out-himself kind of day.</p><p>Brett has breezed through the introduction, got stuck on the main part of his text for a while, but eventually managed to write something half-decent, and he’s now trying to decide what to write in his conclusion, when he hears a sigh somewhere above his head. He looks up, and there’s Eddy, all smiles, but eyes shy and hair messed up by the repeated motions of his own hands.</p><p>“There you are, Brettybae,” Eddy says. He drops his bag on the ground and sits down next to Brett with an old man’s wince, fidgets with the hem of his shirt for a while. “Been looking for you…”</p><p>Brett frowns. “What’s up with that nickname?” he asks.</p><p>It’s not the first time Eddy’s using it, but he usually uses it to mock Brett whenever he feels that he’s acting too protective, a parody of a pet name to remind Brett that Eddy’s old enough to handle himself, that he doesn’t need someone to fuss over him. Except this time, his tone is not at all sarcastic. It sounds strangely honest and sincere, with how his voice is so quiet and shy.</p><p>“You don’t like it?” Eddy says.</p><p>For a second, Brett imagines that he sees a hint of a pout on Eddy’s face, and a glint of hurt in his eye. But then his friend chuckles lightly, grinning like a child, and there’s the familiar look in his eye, the look of a kid wanting to joke around and make fun of everything, and it’s Eddy all right, no pout or hurt or anything.</p><p>“It’s ‘cause you’re my only bae,” Eddy adds, a mischievous look in his eye, and then he cackles, like he’s just said the funniest thing ever, even though it isn’t. Not really. Not to Brett.</p><p>Brett shakes his head. “I mean… no wonder that our friends keep wondering if we’re dating, when you say stuff like this.”</p><p>He’s not lying, he’s heard it ten thousand times before now. Maybe they never ask explicitly, but in the way they say ‘<em>what’s your relationship, exactly</em>’, ‘<em>you’ve really grown inseparable, right</em>’ or ‘<em>my god you act like a married couple</em>’, he hears the real question, the unsaid words. It’s annoying, that he can’t be close to his roommate without people talking about them, but he thinks, let them talk, right? He doesn’t know how to explain the closeness either, if he’s honest with himself. If he were younger, he’d say best friend and leave it at that, but do people still have best friends in university, best friends with that level of absolute, of I-don’t-want-to-share-this, of I-don’t-want-to-share-you? So, yeah, people think they’re dating, and maybe Brett understands where they get the idea, even if he finds it dumb and wishes they wouldn’t.</p><p>Eddy frowns a little. “Your friends ask if we’re dating?”</p><p>“Yours don’t?”</p><p>“Not to my face, no.” Eddy pauses a moment, tilts his head a little, like it all comes as a surprise to him and now he has to consider the whole thing. “I’ll stop if you don’t like it,” he says eventually, serious and subdued, eyes searching Brett’s.  </p><p>He shrugs. “Whatever. I don’t care. You do you, mate.”</p><p>Eddy’s looking at his hands, silent. Brett redirects his attention to his screen, saves his work in progress, then looks at Eddy again.</p><p>“You were looking for me?” he asks softly.</p><p>Eddy’s eyes light up and he smiles a little, all soft, before he shakes his head like he’s waving off some thoughts.</p><p>“You’ve got cherry blossoms all over your hair,” he says, happy sparkles in his voice, chin pointing upwards. Another soft smile. “You look like an anime character,” he adds as he plucks petals from the top of Brett’s head.</p><p>His hand stops mid-movement and quickly retreats when Brett squirms a little. He looks at the ground for a while, picks at blades of grass, and Brett can’t make up the expression on his face. He waits, patiently, for Eddy to sort his own thoughts out.</p><p>“You were looking for me…” Brett repeats, when Eddy stays silent for too long.</p><p>“I had something for you,” Eddy says. He sounds disappointed, and he opens his backpack to get a bubble tea, “but it seems that you don’t need it.”</p><p>“Nah, gimme,” Brett replies. He makes grabbing gestures, and Eddy laughs.</p><p>“I bought your favourite and all…”</p><p>There’s something needy in Eddy’s voice, something Brett’s learned to recognise well-enough, something that he hasn’t heard since the beginnings of their cohabitation. <em>I did this thing, just for you</em>, Eddy’s tone of voice says, <em>will you look at me now, will you like me now?</em> It’s a throwback to their first weeks as roommates, and Brett’s a little surprised to hear it again now that they’re in the clear, now that Eddy’s got what he wanted.</p><p>“Yeah, I see. Thank you…” He smiles, a little wicked, because he knows Eddy by now. “So, what is it that you want, this time?” he asks. Because it’s always like that.</p><p>“Who says I want something. I’m just trying to be a good friend.”</p><p>There’s not much energy in Eddy’s protest, and Brett scoffs.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Eddy concedes. “Maybe I have a favour to ask.”</p><p>Eddy’s fumbling through his bag again, until he gets out a crumpled music sheet. He looks a little ashamed and tries to smooth the pages on his knee before Brett can see. When he realises it’s a lost cause, he hands it to Brett with a shy smile.</p><p>It’s the sheet music for Sarasate’s Navarra, and Brett looks at Eddy with questioning eyes.</p><p>“I’d like to present it at the end of the year, and I need someone to play with me,” Eddy says, hopeful.</p><p>“Why me?” Brett asks, “why not someone from your year?”</p><p>Eddy shrugs.</p><p>“It’s not an easy piece, you-” Brett says, doesn’t finish, looks at Eddy.</p><p>“I know. I thought… I wanted to try…”</p><p>Eddy looks like a puppy again, and Brett sighs. He’s not sure he can handle the extra workload. But he’s willing to try.</p><p>“On one condition, though…”</p><p>Eddy looks up, sparkles in his eyes. He looks excited like a child on Christmas morning. “Anything you want.”</p><p>The corner of Brett's lips lift up in a crooked smile, the one he uses when he's won something, when he knows he's good. “You’ll owe me, if I say yes. I can reclaim a favour whenever I feel like it…”  </p><p>“I mean,” Eddy tries to add quickly, but Brett cuts him short.</p><p>“Nah, nah. You said anything. I’ll add that to the list of favours you already owe me.”</p><p>Eddy’s silent for a moment after that. Serious. Like he’s considering the whole thing carefully, weighing the pros and cons, like this isn’t some stupid agreement between friends but something much more important. Then he takes a deep breath, looks into Brett’s eyes with determination. “Anything you want,” he repeats with a nod of his head.</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading. Take care.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>* 16 *</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They come in by two, a boy and a girl, and they ask for the permission to rehearse a duet, and Brett says ‘sure, whatever’. They’re so young, not even twenty yet, and Brett feels so incredibly old just watching them. He knows he’s not, strictly speaking. He’s barely in his mid-thirties, but he hasn’t been that wide-eyed and innocent in what feels like a century. It’s disparaging in the worst kind of way. He can still remember, only just, what it felt like to be so full of hopes and dreams. It’s so close he can almost touch it, and yet it’s far enough that when he looks back, he can shake his head at his own foolishness. He doesn’t understand how he could ever be like that. He feels so fucking old. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Supervised practice’, or whatever these private lessons are now called, is the least favourite of Brett’s obligations. He sees all these young, promising violinists coming in to see him, hoping for advice, and he’s hit with the worst case of imposter’s syndrome he’s ever had. They look at him and they think that he’s there because he’s got all the answers, that he’ll be able to tell them how to improve, how to hoist themselves up to the level of all the kid prodigies. He doesn’t know how to tell them that he doesn’t know anymore, that he’s lost that part of himself a long time ago, that he feels like a fraud for judging and criticizing their playing when he feels like his is just so desperately average. He feels too old to labour under the illusion that he’s got any advice worth giving.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The boy and the girl come in with their sheet music and their violins and all their expectations, and he’s almost sorry that he’s going to disappoint them, inevitably. He asks their names while they pull out their instruments, and immediately after he forgets it. They all blur in his mind, young and hungry and full of promise. But these two seem even more determined than the others. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s more confident than him and it shows in every little gesture, from the way they tune to the way they answer his questions. She always speaks first, presents things like they are inevitabilities, she knows her worth and she’s clearly the leader of the two. It’s a good thing, that confidence, and Brett can appreciate the leadership qualities. She’d be a good section leader in orchestra, armed to face all the difficulties of the music world with the easiness with which she stands her ground. He’s different, a little shy, defers to her, snakes little looks her way when she speaks. He’s all soft and quiet, sparing of every word and every gesture. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They start tuning and Brett wonders, as he looks at them, if she knows that her partner is so desperately, desperately in love with her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They play the Navarra and it’s a special kind of pain but he doesn’t show, jots down notes and ideas, nods appreciatively when they nail a passage, stops them when they reach a harder passage and grow frustrated, forces them to play the first bars of something else, a piece they like, before he makes them start again, and again, until the confidence transfers from one piece to the other. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The boy’s better than her and she knows. Brett sees it in the way she turns to him during the harder passages, in the way she copies his fingerings and bowing. Brett wonders if she’s envious, but she doesn’t seem to be. If anything, she’s admiring him from where she stands, impressed glances furtively cast to her left. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They’re both terribly stressed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>His bow skids every once in a while, turning entire passages into ricochet, and her shoulders are so tense that Brett’s afraid that she’s going to strain a muscle before the end of the lesson.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He makes them sit down at the end of the lesson and they look at him like they’re afraid that they’ve done something wrong. They seem surprised when he talks to them about anxiety and performance, about the importance of letting go sometimes, tells them that wrong notes don’t matter as much as they think in music. They start nodding along after a while, drinking his every word. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He feels like he’s never given more empty advice in his life, like his own words have lost all meaning and he can’t understand why they seem so impressed. He doesn’t remember how there was ever a time when his advice made sense, how it could genuinely help.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The students still leave with huge smiles on their faces.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t get why.</em>
</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi! Thanks for reading :) Have a very nice day</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 4 *</p><p>Eddy’s got the worst performance anxiety that Brett’s ever seen, and it gnaws at him with hungry teeth every time he gets into his own head too much. It comes up unannounced and eats him up little by little until he’s literally shaking on stage. Brett hasn’t yet managed to figure out what triggers it. Eddy can play beautifully one day, and the next day the anxiety monster rears up its ugly head and Eddy loses half of his abilities. Even in front of Brett, he’ll get nervous. And by now they’ve known each other for long enough that it shouldn’t happen. Eddy’s seen Brett in the weirdest situations, do the dumbest shit, and he still gets shaky bow in front of him sometimes. Just imagining Eddy having to perform in front of an audience of his peers gives Brett second-hand anxiety.</p><p>The aftermath is just as bad. Eddy overthinks everything, blames himself for every little failure. Brett knows that he replays all his little mistakes on loop in his head, all the wrong notes and moments of questionable intonation repeated again and again until it’s all Eddy can think about. He’ll second-guess everything, question his career choice, voice small and strained as he tells Brett ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for this’. It’s so hard to get him out of that headspace, because Brett doesn’t know what to say to make it all okay.</p><p>Brett can’t really say if it’s a workshop gone bad or anxiety over an upcoming competition this time, because he can’t get the story out of Eddy, no matter how much he tries.</p><p>So there they are, with Eddy crumpled on the ground at the foot of Brett’s bed, his face hidden in his knees and his arms hugging his legs tightly. He says he’s not crying, but every five seconds or so, Brett hears a wet sniffle coming from the mess on the floor.</p><p>“Dude, seriously?” Brett says, but he doesn’t even receive an answer.</p><p>He puts down his book and sits up a little to get a better view of the mess of hair that is the only part of Eddy that he can see. It’s a pitiful sight, and it bites at Brett’s chest every time he sees Eddy like this.</p><p>“Eddy?” he asks, tentative.</p><p>Eddy shakes his head and his entire body trembles.</p><p>“I’m fine,” he croaks, and Brett can tell that he’s anything but. “It’ll go away.”</p><p>And yes, he’s not wrong. It’ll go away. Eddy will pull through, he always does, eventually. But Brett wishes that there was something he could do to hasten the process.</p><p>He gets off the bed and gets down on Eddy’s level, and touches the side of his head carefully.</p><p>“Bro…” he’s cautious when he speaks, a little hesitant. “You gotta do something about that… it’s not normal.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Eddy repeats, but his voice breaks a little at the end.</p><p>He looks up, and he might say that he isn’t crying, but his eyes are wet and he’s certainly close to crying. His eyes find Brett’s and his lower lip trembles a little. Tears pearl in Eddy’s eyelashes and there’s a small, ugly part of Brett’s brain that thinks ‘here we go again’, because this has happened before. He never knows how to react. He’s not used to this level of raw vulnerability, and kind of wishes Eddy would hold it in.</p><p>“I suck,” Eddy says in a trembling voice, and all of Brett’s uncharitable thoughts vanish into the air.</p><p>“Oh, Eddy,” he says helplessly.</p><p>Eddy looks so upset and sad that Brett wants to reach out and wipe the tears from the corner of his eyes. He’ll admit it, even if only to himself. There’s a part of him, a tiny, minuscule part that wants nothing more than to comfort Eddy with soft touches. He’s tempted to extend a hand and run his thumb over Eddy’s cheeks, smooth out the acne scars and tell him that it’s going to be fine, that none of it matters in the end. He doesn’t do it because he thinks it would be weird.</p><p>“Dude, it’s alright,” he says instead. “You don’t know how many times I’ve bombed during workshops. I’ve had shaky bow and memory slips, and one time I even started the piece in the wrong key. Like, every mistake you can make, I’ve made it. And I’m still alive.”</p><p>Eddy laughs a little, and then he sobs, a lot. Ugly sobbing with his face hidden in his knees again and his shoulders trembling in defeat.  </p><p>And it’s complicated, the feelings in Brett’s chest.</p><p>He wants to call Eddy a baby for being like that, wants shake him by the shoulders until he gets ahold of himself. And he also wants to call him baby and whisper dumb things in his ear while petting his hair until he feels better. It’s complicated, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it properly, so he mostly just ignores it.</p><p>By force of habit, he grabs at Eddy’s arm and pulls him up.</p><p>“You’ve done your crying now,” he says. “Time to move on.”</p><p>“I don’t …”</p><p>“Nah. We’re going to get whatever’s got into your head out of it and-”</p><p>He’s not even done talking that Eddy seems to fold in on himself, and then he’s wrapped around Brett, enveloping him in the weirdest hug that Brett’s ever received. He pulls him in with clumsy gestures, wedges his chin over Brett’s left shoulder, holds too tight, doesn’t let go. Brett freezes, trapped in place by an excess of limbs, and for a second he doesn’t know what to do.</p><p>“I need – I need…” Eddy heaves, his chest pushing uncomfortably against Brett, every intake of air too loud and too painful.</p><p>“Alright, alright. Get it all out then.”</p><p>He gets his arms out of Eddy’s grip, rests one hand on the back of Eddy’s head to hold him in place, gently rubs his back with the other. Eddy’s fists tighten around the back of Brett’s shirt and he says Brett’s name several times in a whisper.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Brett says, “it’s okay.”  </p><p>Eddy calms down after a while, his breathing grows steadier and quieter. Brett keeps running his hand flat along his back in long, slow strokes until the tension eases a little, Eddy’s limbs going all soft against him. He finds himself thinking that he doesn’t dislike this, hugging Eddy. Just holding him. Feeling his bones under the palm of his hand. Having this dumb and uncoordinated body be his, even if only for the short moment when it’s pressed against his own in this awkward way.</p><p>“Hey, Eddy?”</p><p>The dumbass nods and rubs his wet face against Brett’s neck, and Brett gags a little because it’s probably a mix of tears and snot and it’s just gross.</p><p>“You’ve got to figure out a way to deal with this properly, you know that, right?”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“I’m serious. I don’t know, maybe you could try yoga or something. Don’t laugh.”</p><p>“I’m stupid…”</p><p>“No, you’re not… Well, okay, you are, but… everyone gets nervous, right? I think… I think you let it get into your head too much. Violin’s just a way to express yourself, in the end. Right? It’s not who you are. I mean, as a person. Violin doesn’t define your worth. When you fail at playing a piece or you fail at a competition, it doesn’t mean you failed as a person. It just means you failed at that particular thing. And then… then, you learn from it and you grow. Does that make sense? If you get shaky bow during a performance, it doesn’t mean anything more than that you got shaky bow on that day. It doesn’t change who you are. Do you get what I mean? I mean, I don’t know man… I just… I think you get into your head too much.”</p><p>There’s a long silence when Brett stops speaking, and he’s afraid that he’s said something stupid. It’s hard to put what he’s thinking into words, but he gets what Eddy’s feeling, because he’s been there. He only wants to help.  </p><p>“Come on, let go now,” he says to fill the silence. “And go wash that gross face of yours, we’re going outside now.”</p><p>Eddy doesn’t let go, so Brett has to threaten him. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll tickle you until you’re crying again.”</p><p>He thinks Eddy will squeal and jump away, but he doesn’t.</p><p>“I love you, Brett,” Eddy says instead. “You’re the best friend anyone can have.”</p><p>“I know, yeah, I know. Lucky you, hey?”</p><p>He jabs at Eddy’s sides for good measure until the idiot’s wriggling out of his way, half crying and half laughing, and then he pushes Eddy to the bathroom. He’s going to take him outside and they’re going to play on the street, any dumb music they want, until Eddy forgets about what’s stressing him out. And then he’s going to push Eddy to do some dumb shit he’ll think of in the moment, partly as a revenge for the way his shirt’s drenched and sticks uncomfortably to his shoulder, and partly because he knows that it’ll make Eddy laugh that ugly, open-mouthed, teeth-showing laugh that Brett’s grown so fond of. And if they make enough money out of this little adventure, then he’s going to take him for a nice bubble tea, and they’ll talk about anime or movies or whatever, anything but music, until Eddy almost falls asleep in his chair and it’s time to head back.</p><p>*</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for your time. Take care &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 17 *</p><p>
  <em>Everything is different, yet nothing’s changed. It’s a strange sensation. He’s walked these halls a thousand times before, he knows every turn and every corner. Different students, same atmosphere. Different context, same vibe. Same lecture halls, same library, same practice rooms and auditoriums and concert hall. It’s not easy, because he has memories everywhere. The more he’s determined to not let them reach the surface, the more they pop up, like bubbles on a lake. </em>
</p><p>“We need more violists. Brett, why don’t you just…”</p><p>“Bro, this is <em>your</em> piece…”</p><p>“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be listening to you…”</p><p>“My parents. They don’t tolerate failure…”</p><p>
  <em>He can’t help but think back. Weeks pass and the months get warmer and he’s submerged by memories. There’s no getting rid of them once they start flooding in, so after vain efforts to push them back, he surrenders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s the view from his office windows that he’s seen so many times. It’s the practice rooms that still smell as disgusting as they did back then. It’s the little shop, just outside campus, where he used to buy bubble teas and that is still there, surprisingly… </em>
</p><p><em>“</em>Brett! When was Mozart born? You need to…”</p><p>“Hey, Brett. Brett! Brett! Dude, look at what I found…”</p><p>“Do you <em>want</em> to kiss me?”</p><p> “Sure, I’ll move to the right so you can copy…”</p><p>
  <em>He thinks back to his tiny room with the red curtains framing the window, thinks about hours and hours of meticulous practice to reach his goal, thinks about his friends – the parties, the long hours of rehearsal, the rushes to the library to complete an assignment minutes before it is due. He thinks about Eddy, mostly. How he would cry too easily and hug too tight. How his shorts would hang low on his hips when the weather was this warm, and how Brett could guess the long line of his back through his shirt. How he would push, always a little more, always a little further, until Brett gave up, gave in, gave everything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing’s changed but everything is different. He’s not a student anymore. He’s not carefree, reckless, impatient like before. He’s not dreaming about solo spots and prestigious orchestras. He’s grown up, he’s responsible. He’s here to teach and advise and help, even if he doesn’t know how. He’s disillusioned, maybe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Students love him.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He has no idea why or how it happened, but it happened. He doesn’t know what they heard about him from the first few lessons he gave, but after a week, the requests for private lessons double. They come to him in the hallway, too. With smiles. With questions. They knock at his door and they come to him for advice. Not just about violin playing. They want to talk about what worries them about their future careers, ask him how they can be less anxious before competitions, how to combat stress on stage. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t understand any of it. Still feels like he’s spouting off the same nonsense, empty words, useless advice, but they all drink it eagerly, leave smiling, thank him profusely, come back a week later with more questions. Rinse and repeat. Ad infinitum.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Weeks pass and the months get warmer and it gets unbearable in his office. He can’t get the AC to function. It’s almost too much to endure and he thinks about iced bubble teas and visits to the shopping centre just to get free aircon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s taken out of his daydreams of swimming pools and snowy fields by a knock on the frame of the door. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Yang?” comes a voice from the doorway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He thinks ‘student’ but it’s not. It’s a woman, leaning forward to look inside. She’s got to be about his age, messy bun, red lipstick and classic style. He has no idea who she is or what she wants. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He stares at her and she stares back. Then she smiles. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Professor Emerson,” she says. “Music history. My office is across the hallway. I thought I’d give you time to adjust before bothering you with introductions. Didn’t want to overwhelm you when you’ve only just arrived. I know all my other colleagues probably already did.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I had a professor called Emmerson as well when I studied here. But, older…” he says, not thinking, before he stops himself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“My dad, probably,” she says. Another smile. “Nepotism, hey? You know how it works, these days… ”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s a long silence and he doesn’t know how to react. She doesn’t extend a hand for him to shake, so he doesn’t either. It’s not nice, but he’s learned not to trust people immediately. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe he’s a little paranoid. But he’s been burned before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She leans a little on the doorframe, peeks inside. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she jokes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, yes.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She laughs heartily. “Don’t worry, I’m not spying on you. I just wanted to see the new face. My students keep talking about you in glowing terms. I was curious. I won’t bother you any longer. Just, if you need anything, I’m here to help.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t laugh with her, feels a little bad about it, but doesn’t want to force himself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Thank you, professor…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She waves her hand, and it flutters like a little bird. “Call me Jennie. Professor’s for my students. Anyway, call if you need help.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He hesitates a moment. “Actually… I can’t get the AC to function?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her eyebrows raise to the ceiling. “Oh, dear. It’s been broken for the past three years. We’re still waiting on subsidies to get it fixed. Whatever you do, don’t open the window, it makes it worse.”</em>
</p><p><em>Everything is different, yet nothing’s changed, he thinks. Still the same ugly building, order and symmetry just a façade, with so many things broken inside. </em> <em>Weeks pass and the months get warmer and he thinks that this is his life now, the same actions repeated again and again, a little heavier, a little harder each day. </em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for your time :)<br/>have a nice day</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 5 *</p><p>There are days when Brett overdoes it with the practice. He knows it. He’ll spend five, six, seven hours in the practice room. He’ll come back exhausted, muscles aching from the repeated motions, and he’ll face Eddy’s accusing glare, reminding him that Brett’s disregarding his own advice to practice efficiently rather than extensively. He’ll fall asleep the minute his head touches the pillow, in the middle of a sentence, too tired, mind blanked, thoughts erased by bars repeated again and again.</p><p>The thing with practice is that it helps Brett not to think too much. It’s easy to focus on one thing only, when you’re running through a piece again and again. It’s easy to forget about being confused and uncertain about a ton of things, when you nail a passage that you’ve been rehearsing for hours. If he does it right, he feels calm, serene, like all that’s happening around him has no importance. If he uses music to anchor himself down, he doesn’t have to think about anything else. It’s good enough for him.</p><p>Months pass and get warmer, and his friends start complaining that they hardly ever see him again. They’re not wrong. If Brett isn’t practising, then he’s with Eddy.</p><p>Eddy, who still murmurs ‘<em>I’m shy</em>’ as he looks away, hides behind it whenever he feels uncomfortable, but who’s growing more and more confident as time passes, who now pushes Brett towards recklessness just as much as Brett pushes him.</p><p>Eddy, who leaves little post-it notes for Brett when he finally, <em>finally</em>, understands that Brett genuinely worries when he disappears (<em>remind me to buy bubble tea; practice room 5B – 10 AM; we’re out of BBT; hot-pot tonight?; happy birthday Brettybae; gone shopping with M; bought bbt for you – on your desk; rehearsal till 9 tonight – don’t worry</em>) and who signs his notes with something that looks like a deformed spaceship but he insists is a violin.</p><p>Eddy who now demands hugs all the time, like he’s owed them, before competitions (<em>for good luck</em>), when he gets through to the semi-finals (<em>congratulate me, bro</em>), when he doesn’t place in the final (<em>why do I suck so much</em>) and who pretends that he doesn’t know that this is not what Brett meant when he said ‘<em>You’ve got to figure out a way to deal with this properly, you know that, right…’. </em></p><p>Eddy who barges into the practice room when Brett’s rehearsing, who shouts ‘<em>E for Eddy</em>’ with a smile so bright that Brett has to look away, shy all of a sudden, because yes, E for Eddy.</p><p>Eddy who demands Brett’s undivided attention, all the time, <em>look at me, Brett, look at me, look at me, look at me…  </em></p><p>Eddy, who’s such a constant presence in Brett’s life that it’s hard to imagine that there was ever a time when he wasn’t there, in the corner of Brett’s eye, goofy smiles, stupid jokes, serious looks, pretty eyes, dumb, dumb face…</p><p>Eddy, who says ‘<em>I love you</em>’, all the time, like it doesn’t mean anything, who adds ‘<em>bro</em>’ at the end, like it’s nothing, like Brett doesn’t feel <em>weird</em> every time he hears it.</p><p>Between practice and Eddy, Brett neglects other work. He lets assignments pile up, has to run to the library on the day it is due to make some last minute research, has to write two, three different research papers at the same time, is afraid he’ll mix everything together. It’s his fault, he knows it. He can’t bring himself to change his habits.</p><p>He’s stuck inside on perfectly nice, sunny days where he could be running around doing anything else. But he doesn’t have a choice. It happens once, twice, and the third time he wants to smack himself in the face for not planning things properly.</p><p>“Motherffffff…” he grumbles, ready to throw his laptop across the room.</p><p>Eddy chuckles from where he’s sat on the ground and looks at him over his open book, like the good kid that he is, with all his assignments completed weeks before they’re due.</p><p>“Should’ve started your thing sooner,” Eddy says, and Brett can hear the smugness in his voice.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, we all know you’re perfect,” Brett groans, rolling his eyes.</p><p>Eddy grins. “I love you too, bro,” he says, before he looks back at his book, with a little laugh that shakes his shoulders every now and then.</p><p>Brett shakes his head in mock annoyance but Eddy doesn’t see it, too engrossed in whatever he’s reading. After a moment, Brett stands up, paces across the room, glances at Eddy who doesn’t even look up, and eventually goes to sit on his bed, with his laptop precariously balanced on his knees and a bubble tea in his left hand, the coldness slightly numbing the tip of his fingers.</p><p>It’s so warm inside, the AC’s broken again (<em>it’ll be fixed before the warmer months, boys, don’t worry, </em>is what they’d been told – months ago). They’ve closed the curtains to keep the sun out, and everything in the room looks like it’s on fire now. Eddy’s hair almost takes auburn shades in the reddish light, and Brett watches as stray strands fall into his eyes and he pushes them away with sweaty fingers. Eddy keeps biting at his right index in concentration, like he always does, hunched over his book, with his face too close to the paper. Brett wants to say ‘<em>you need glasses, bro</em>’, but he doesn’t because then he would be caught staring and he would have to explain himself.</p><p>He manages to go back to his work, somehow. Hacks away at it for a good thirty minutes before he’s taken out of it. Eddy’s staring at him from across the room. He feels it. He puts his stuff away, takes his time. Eddy’s still staring.</p><p>He lifts his eyes, inquisitive, and meets Eddy’s serious gaze. The one that’s so intense it’s scary.</p><p>“I’ve seen you look, you know…” Eddy says quietly and Brett freezes, a deer in headlights, unsure of what comes next.</p><p>Eddy’s eyes drift across the room, and when they come back to Brett they’re shy, uncertain.</p><p>“I see you watch all the time…” He scratches his neck, messes up his hair, comes to sit on Brett’s bed, too close, looks down at the ground. “I’m dumb, probably…” he begins.</p><p>Brett feels like he’s missing half of the conversation, he has no idea where this comes from, where it’s going.</p><p>“It’s just…” Eddy’s looking at him from under his eyelashes, shy again like the day they met.</p><p>Brett stares.</p><p>“What the fuck is going on?” he tries to say. The words die in his throat.</p><p> “Sometimes you look like you want to kiss me…” Eddy says at the same time.</p><p>Brett stops, waits for the punchline, waits for the laughter – Eddy’s insane cackle maybe, the one he uses when he thinks his shitty joke’s the funniest thing in the world.</p><p>Nothing comes.</p><p>It’s not like that, Brett wants to say. He stares sometimes but it’s not like that. He cares about Eddy because Eddy’s younger, because he’s more sensitive, more fragile, because he needs someone to take care of him, to hug him when he feels like crying, but it’s not like that. He knows Eddy’s body – the way he moves, the shape of his shoulders, the bend of his wrist when he holds his bow – knows the details of his face – the moles and scars and mismatched eyelids and crooked teeth – because of the duets they’ve been rehearsing together, because of the hours spent looking at him for cues when they’re playing. It’s not like that because he’s never thought about it that way, wouldn’t allow himself to, never even wondered whether or not he wants to kiss him.</p><p>“Do you <em>want </em>to kiss me?” Eddy says again, very softly.</p><p>It doesn’t even sound like a question, Brett thinks. Eddy <em>wants, </em>he realises then. <em>Eddy</em> wants Brett to kiss him.</p><p>His own hands are balled into fists, and he forces himself to unfurl his fingers. He reaches out, to gently push him away, he thinks. But then he curls his palm around Eddy’s shoulder and can’t bring himself to do anything else. He digs his fingers in a little. Eddy’s skin is warm, so he runs the flat of his hand over his shoulder, up his neck, feels short hair tickle his fingertips.</p><p>
  <em>Does he want to kiss him?</em>
</p><p>He’s never thought about it before, or barely. Once maybe. It’s the teeth. The way they bite onto Eddy’s lower lip when he’s anxious. Brett’s wondered what it would feel like to run his tongue against them, maybe once, he’s not sure, he was tired, or drunk, or both. It’s the way Eddy licks his lips sometimes, how they shine after. He’s watched it once, twice maybe. It’s because Eddy’s got the kind of jaw that you want to touch. He’s looked at it, a few times, maybe, wondered how it’d feel like.</p><p>Eddy’s jaw is sharp and smooth, and he leans into Brett’s palm, pushes into it like a cat. He sighs softly, a warm breath against Brett's skin, and his eyelashes flutter between closed and open. Brett wants to touch them. Eddy whimpers a little when Brett withdraws his hand, a high pitched sound that comes from the back of his throat. He leans his face forward, lips slightly parted.</p><p>He looks like he really, <em>really</em> wants Brett to kiss him.</p><p>So Brett does.</p><p>Softly first, just to taste, to know how it feels. Then a little harder, because Eddy lets him, lets Brett bite his lip and discover what his teeth feel like when he kisses him, melts into Brett’s touch, lets Brett pull him closer, one of his hand on the side of his neck, the other one digging into his shoulder.</p><p>They both jump a little when Eddy’s phone goes off.</p><p>“Fuck,” Eddy says, out of breath and flustered. “I’ve got a lesson…”</p><p>He bolts up, stops at the door. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says. “Unless you want it to…”</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading :)<br/>Take care.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 18 *</p><p>
  <em>The memories are there, always, but if he keeps them at the back of his mind, he can function properly most of the time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett’s getting quite good at this, keeping the ghosts at bay. If he keeps himself busy enough, he doesn’t have to think. If he doesn’t have a minute to slow down and reflect on his life, then he can keep going like this forever. It’s one of his old tricks. Drown out the echoes with anything else. It used to be practice, now it’s work. Same difference. Working has at least one advantage. He gets a whole lot done.  Going out with friends or colleagues lost its appeal ages ago anyway, even if he still does it sometimes, out of habit mostly. Only now it’s just going through the motions. He doesn’t really enjoy it. But at least he doesn’t think. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It takes a toll, though. It’s a constant strain on his brain and it’s not helped by the inherent stress that comes with academic life.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“There,” Jennie Emerson says as she places a cup of coffee in front of him. “You look like you need it.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looks up from his desk, grateful. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry, I zoned out. Thank you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Jesus,” she says, shaking her head. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’ll be about it, yeah.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s not that much of a problem, really. It barely even shows. He’s quite good at pretending that everything’s perfectly fine. He gets by on caffeine and sheer willpower. He never used to drink coffee that much, or even like it, until it became a necessity in his later years at university, with all the work he had to get done. Eddy used to make fun of him for that on a regular basis. </em>
</p><p>No. Enough.</p><p>
  <em>“Ah, fuck it,” he says. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No, don’t worry. Is this about the inspection?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Right. There’s an inspector coming to check in on his private lessons later that day. He forgot about that. That’s what happens, he guesses, when he’s too tired to think. If he’d remembered, he would’ve tried to get at least a couple of hours of sleep. Just to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid or, rather, anything that he’s not supposed to say. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looks at his colleague and wonders, not for the first time, if this kindness and apparent openness is real, or if it’s just pretend. She seems genuine enough, more so than most of the others, but who’s to tell. Then again, perhaps she wonders the same thing about him. And to be honest, he wouldn’t be able to say which one it is. A little bit of both, perhaps. It’s a weird atmosphere. He would have thought that all these highly educated people would be above petty squabbles and whispered rumours, but it seems to be the opposite. They’re all scared of each other, in the end. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s the second one in two months,” he says with a sigh. “Isn’t that a bit much?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She seems to consider the question for a moment and takes a seat in front of him. He notices that she bites her lips when she’s in deep thought, and she seems to struggle with something. It takes a long time before she answers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Honestly, yes. You should’ve been in the clear after the first one. I think… It’s just a guess… but I think it’s because you’re so popular among the students. Someone must’ve… yes, whatever...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m not that popular…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Who are you trying to fool? They flock to you. Surely you’re at least a bit aware of it...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay, let’s say that you’re right. Does that warrant a second inspection not even a month after the first one?” Brett doesn’t want to sound like he’s paranoid, but if he’s being honest, he feels kind of targeted. He never imagined that even here, they’d be watching his every move. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She rolls her eyes at him, as if he’s missing the obvious and she doesn’t want to have to spell it out to him. Then she shakes her head again. A common thing, he’s come to realise. </em>
</p><p><em>“They like you. They </em>listen<em> to you…”</em></p><p>
  <em>He still doesn’t get it, but she doesn’t seem inclined to explain further. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t your students like you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She laughs a little at that. “They tolerate me. But honestly… Music history? Most of them aren’t here for that. Besides, I don’t give private lessons. Anything I could say would get out pretty fast…”   </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett’s curious now. “What about Stern?” he asks. “Did he get inspected that often?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She laughs at it, like it’s the funniest joke. “No, he was in the clear,” she replies eventually, shaking her head. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead…” her voice drops a little, “… just… yes, let’s say that he proved himself, right?” She seems genuinely displeased at the memory. “Anyway, I’ll let you prepare. Tell me how it went.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She leaves Brett feeling even more tired than before, despite the coffee. He feels like he’s completely out of his element here. The teaching parts, he’s starting to like. Some students have real potential, and they’re a pleasure to work with. The colleagues, though, he doesn’t understand. He’s just so tired of people speaking half-truths and walking on tip-toes around each other. </em>
</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>short one, I know. sometimes I make myself a little sad with these. Anyway, thank you for your time and have a very nice day. take care of yourself.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 6 *</p><p>He just kissed him.</p><p>He. Kissed. Eddy.</p><p>For a moment, Brett’s mind just goes blank. He can’t really think about anything else but the way Eddy’s fingers trembled when they closed around his wrist to keep him there, how shaky his breath was. How unexpectedly soft his skin felt, and how weirdly hot everything became, Eddy leaning into every touch, wanting so much.</p><p>
  <em>Holy moly. </em>
</p><p>He kissed Eddy, and now everything is like…</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck?</em>
</p><p>Where does that… what now? The more Brett thinks about it, the more he gets confused. What happens to their carefully constructed friendship, now? Everything’s changed. Everything’s different. They’re different. Surely they can’t go back to whatever it was before. Not when he clearly can’t get it out of his head. Not when the only thought on his mind when they pulled apart was ‘<em>again</em>’.</p><p>And then Eddy just fucks off and says what?</p><p>
  <em>It doesn’t have to mean anything, unless you want it to… </em>
</p><p>This is just so typically Eddy, and Brett could pull his hair out in frustration. How like him is it to dump the burden on Brett and absolve himself of all decision making?</p><p><em>Unless </em>you<em> want it to… (there, Brett, I’ll throw everything at your feet and you decide, now.)</em></p><p>As if it’s just up to Brett to decide what happens next, and Eddy will just follow. Which he would do, probably. But that’s not how it works. Brett won’t let Eddy hide behind his shyness this time. They need to have a conversation over this, even if Brett isn’t sure how he wants it to go, exactly.</p><p>It’s all still a bit blurry, in his head. He’s never thought about them that way. He’s entertained some thoughts, maybe, but always in the back of his mind, a passing thing. Hypotheticals. Half-conscious, half-awake ‘how would that feel like’ kind of thoughts. He’s not dumb, either. He knows Eddy is kind of pretty, sweet in that soft puppy kind of way. But he’s never considered it anywhere near a genuine possibility to steer their friendship onto any other path.</p><p>Eddy has, though. He’s pretty sure he can infer that from what happened today.</p><p>It doesn’t help the decision making in any shape or form.</p><p>Eddy takes ages to come back from his lesson. Brett has the time to have a light melt down over the situation and recover from it, envision half a dozen different scenarios for how things would turn out – most of them ending in some version or another of them fucking, and making him freak out even more – and to eventually force himself to complete his assignments. He also manages to fit in an hour of practice, return trip to the practice room included, orders Chinese take away and finishes it, and even cleans up his drawers. Outside, the sun goes from blinding light to a soft orange hue before it disappears behind the buildings and finally sets, and Eddy’s still not back.</p><p>He doesn’t answer Brett’s texts and Brett knows, <em>he just knows</em>, that the fucker is hiding somewhere. Freaking out, probably. Because that’s what Eddy does. Right now, he’s overthinking every little thing that happened to find some improbable meaning to insignificant details. Wondering if he’s good enough, or whatever.</p><p>Brett’s already in bed when Eddy tries to sneak in, shoes in hand, and Brett has the distinct impression that this is what Eddy was waiting for, for Brett to be asleep when he got back. Either to avoid a conversation or out of fear of rejection, Brett’s not sure.</p><p>So Brett waits till Eddy has reached his side of the room, and then he turns on the light, making Eddy start. He lets out a shrill, high-pitched note that has Brett doubled over in laughter at the absurdity of the situation.</p><p>“What note was that, uh, perfect pitch boy?” he snorts.</p><p>“Shut up, shut up. What the fuck, man. What… my heart!”</p><p>“Serves you right for what you did,” Brett says. His mind flashes back to Eddy’s lips, parted, wanting, and he thinks ‘what about my heart, hey?’</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eddy mumbles.</p><p>“No, you’re not, you prick. What did you think was going to happen tomorrow morning?”</p><p>Eddy looks at the ground and bites at his lower lip.</p><p>“No, fuck that,” Brett says, kind of irritated suddenly. “You’re not shy. Not when you came on to me like that.”</p><p>Eddy looks up with an offended glare, and his lips curled into a displeased pout. He’s red up to his ears. “I don’t want to talk about it now.”</p><p>“Well tough luck, mate, because you have to.”</p><p>Brett flops back onto his bed, goes to sit at the head, back against the wall. He watches as Eddy fidgets, nervous, indecisive, cornered.</p><p>“I didn’t think that far,” he murmurs.</p><p>“You sure did,” Brett says, because he knows how Eddy’s mind works.</p><p>Eddy looks at him, surprised. After the longest time, he shrugs his shoulders. “I need to know what you want, first.”</p><p>He’s so cautious that Brett almost wants to give in, take the reins, and relieve Eddy of this. Except he won’t. “Nah. What do you want?”</p><p>Eddy appears to square his shoulders a little, like he’s afraid that Brett’s going to… what exactly? Get mad? Reject him? Or the opposite, perhaps?</p><p>“I want to take you out on a date,” Eddy says, wrenching the words out of his throat like it’s the hardest thing to say.</p><p>Out of all the things Brett expected, this wasn’t even in his top five.</p><p>“A date, that’s what you want?”</p><p>Eddy is almost defiant when he says “I want to be your boyfriend.”</p><p>“Yeah?” he says, uncertain like some dumb kid.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>He tries to imagine it for a moment. How different would it be, really? They’re already together all the time. Except it wouldn’t be the same at all, in fact. Nothing would be the same. He thinks about it and he feels the back of his neck burn. He thinks about it and there’s a possessive creature that slowly unfurls in his chest, digging its claws in Brett’s heart, excited at the prospect of calling Eddy his, for now, for as long as Eddy would let him.</p><p>“Okay,” he says, and his throat feels dry. “A date, okay. Yeah. Let’s see where this goes.”</p><p>Eddy looks at him, hopeful. “Friday?” he asks, like he doesn’t need to prepare for it at all, like he’s had it all planned out in his head a long time ago.</p><p>“Yeah. Sure. Friday.”</p><p>It’s weird. He’s used to taking people on dates more than having them take him. But if it makes Eddy happy, then he’s in. He’d do anything really.</p><p>They stare at each other, after, and it’s awkward and weird for a while, until Eddy says: “I fucked up my lesson.”</p><p>“Of course you did,” Brett sighs. “You let it get to your head, didn’t you? You fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Stern destroyed me.”</p><p>“Yeah. I can picture that. Did you get shaky bow?”</p><p>“Worse. I blanked. He said I was shit, basically. Not in those terms, but this was clearly what he meant.”</p><p>Brett shakes his head. Professor Stern’s a good violinist but a really, really shit tutor.</p><p>“You know that’s not true, right?”</p><p>“Yeah, whatever.”</p><p>“No, really, it’s not true. You’re a good musician. You can’t let that shit get into your head…”</p><p>Eddy nods quietly, but doesn’t seem convinced.</p><p>“We should sleep now,” Brett says, and although Eddy murmurs a yes, he keeps pacing in the room.</p><p>Brett follows him with his eyes until Eddy comes a stop. He’s almost hesitant when he comes to sit next to Brett, squeezing himself in the little space that’s left.</p><p>“In your own bed, sleep in your own bed,” Brett protests, pushing at Eddy without much enthusiasm.</p><p>“I fucked up my lesson,” Eddy whispers, resting his head against Brett’s shoulder.</p><p>They’ve done this a thousand times before, but somehow now it feels different.</p><p>“It’s not a good enough reason.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Because. Go to sleep now,” Brett says, but he wraps an arm around Eddy’s shoulder and uses his other hand to brush some hair out of his face.</p><p>“Can I come watch you rehearse for your next workshop tomorrow?”</p><p>“You can’t, you’ve got class.”</p><p>Eddy shrugs. “It’s only music history. No one cares. I’ll ask my friend Jen to sign me off. She likes that shit anyway.”</p><p>“Someone’s having a bad influence on you,” Brett jokes. It falls flat.</p><p>He runs his fingers along the length of Eddy’s neck, lightly. It’s kind of weird, he thinks, that he’s allowed these little touches now. If that’s the new normal between them, it’ll probably take some getting used to. He doesn’t dislike it, though, and Eddy doesn’t seem to mind at all. He sighs, content, as he leans even more into Brett’s shoulder.</p><p>“Keep going,” he mutters.</p><p>“You like it, uh?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddy answers genuinely. “I like your fingers a lot.” He takes a moment and closes his eyes. Like a cat, Brett thinks. He’s exactly like a cat.</p><p>“And I like your wrists,” Eddy adds, half-asleep already.</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah. I like your jaw as well. And your mouth. God. I can’t stop thinking about it. And that speck in your eye. And your voice…” Eddy’s voice grows more and more quiet.</p><p>“Go to your own bed before you fall asleep, and I have to stay like this the whole night,” Brett says. He runs the back of his fingers against Eddy’s cheek before curling them behind his ear. Shit. He’s so fucked.</p><p>“What about me,” Eddy asks. “Do you… is there… is there something…”</p><p>“You’re so dumb,” Brett says, and he runs his palm down Eddy’s chest, along his sides, and he feels Eddy’s breathing hitch.</p><p>And then he tickles. Viciously. Eddy jolts up and gets caught in the covers, almost trips, almost falls face flat on the ground.</p><p>“Go sleep in your own bed,” Brett says, laughing so hard it hurts.</p><p>“You’re always so mean,” Eddy huffs a little later, as he pulls the covers over his head.</p><p>Brett smiles.</p><p>He was wrong. Nothing’s changed. They’re still the same. He’s just allowed to touch more, now. It’s nice. He likes that.</p><p>*</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for your time, I truly, truly appreciate. &lt;3</p><p>I've written almost 50,000 words of twoset related shit now. I don't know whether to feel proud or ashamed 🤣 I'll go hide in a corner for a bit, I think.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 19 *</p><p>
  <em>“They’re dumber every year, I swear,” Jennie says over coffee, one morning. “I want to pull my hair out, out of frustration.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett doubts that she’d ever do anything quite like that. She’s way too put together for that. He cannot imagine her showing any other sign of displeasure than the wince that’s currently on her face. He doesn’t believe that she’s as annoyed as she makes it out to be, either. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he says, distractedly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She shakes her head and clicks her tongue, annoyed. “Because yours are good,” she says, and she rolls her eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He resists the urge to remind her that they share most of the same students. But yeah, she’s right. His are nice. They’re motivated, studious, ambitious. They pay attention. It’s a little selfish, but he likes the feeling of having people look up to him again. It’s a nice change from the constant fight to stay on top, afloat, of the last ten years. He’s not sure he misses orchestra life all that much. It’s his old ambitions that he misses, more than the actual life of an orchestral musician. It doesn’t matter that these ambitions were dead and buried within a year of graduating – too much had changed, his world was too different to still hold the same dreams, but he clung onto it with desperation because that was all he had left. Now he’s learning to let go. It’s kind of freeing, but terrifying at the same time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They’re so dumb sometimes,” Jennie continues, bringing him back to the present. “It’s like they are incapable of thinking for themselves.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘That’s because they’re not taught to anymore’ he wants to say, but he bites back his answer. He’s found some kind of balance here. It’s an okay life. He likes his students. He has a purpose again. He’s not about to jeopardize everything once more. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“And like, that old trick of signing each other off? They think I don’t notice?” she goes on. “But dear, we did that back in my day.” She wraps her fingers around her cup and brings it to her lips, but doesn’t drink. She looks so annoyed that it’s almost comical, but Brett knows better than to laugh. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t tell me you asked people to sign your name so you could skip class, I wouldn’t believe it,” he says with a smirk. She’s too much of a ‘by the book’ kind of person. She’d never do that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, really, because you think you know me, Mr. Yang?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “Am I wrong?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She shakes her head in mock irritation. “Fine, no. But I signed my friends’ names all the time. That thing of modifying your handwriting so the lecturer wouldn’t notice, I invented it. And these kids now think they can fool me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He laughs, because she’s taking this so seriously and it’s so dumb. “Ah, they think we’re ancient fossils. They’re young. We were like that, too.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I wasn’t!” She seems genuinely offended, and Brett kind of finds it hilarious, though he’s willing to admit that, no, she probably wasn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, but your father was a professor here. Bet you, you were watched closely.” The moment he says it, he regrets his choice of words. Like they aren’t all constantly watched now… “Weird that we never crossed paths when we were students, hey?” he says quickly, to change the subject. He looks at the table for a long moment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m not surprised. I was always more interested in the theoretical aspects than the performing ones. We wouldn’t have been hanging out with the same crowds, even if our stays here had overlapped...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, probably not.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She stares at him for a long time. She does that, sometimes. She looks at him like he’s dumb. Like she’s waiting for the penny to drop, or like she’s testing him. In these moments, he kind of understand why her students say that she’s too demanding. He’d never say that to her face though. Her gaze is so intense that Brett feels uneasy. She’s got the same stare as her father, and it’s kind of unsettling and terrifying at the same time.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Anyway,” she says, waving her hand, “before I forget. They’re having a baroque recital in town this Friday. I was wondering if you’d be interested in going.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I would, really,” he says, “but I have plans this Friday.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For once, it’s not just a lie that he makes up to get out of socializing. He’s promised his mum that he’d go and visit his grandparents’ grave, since she can’t go this year. And then he’ll drop by Mrs. Chen’s, too, probably. It’s the least he can do.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thanks for reading ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 7 *</p><p> </p><p>Brett has to remind himself that dating is not a competition.</p><p>He doesn’t have to one-up Eddy, to top every little gesture of affection. He wants to. He looks at Eddy, and there’s a fierceness that blooms in his chest, a desire to be good, to be loved. He wants to show that he cares in the same way Eddy does.</p><p>It’s not easy. He’s scared it won’t come across as genuine, scared that it won’t be enough. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He doesn’t want to come across as someone who gets too attached, falls too hard, too fast, either.</p><p>There’s got to be a middle ground, somewhere, a spot where it’s just the right amount of care, where it’s just enough, but Brett hasn’t found it yet. He feels like he constantly has to hold back, rein himself in, out of fear of overdoing it.</p><p>It’s frustrating, then, that it all seems to come effortlessly to Eddy. He radiates affection in every touch, every action. Every touch of hand, every quiet sigh, every gentle look is a declaration that Brett cannot beat, no matter how much he wants to.</p><p>Dating is not a competition, but if it were a competition, though, Brett’s pretty sure he lost on day one.</p><p>He lost the moment Eddy asked him on a date, the moment he looked at Brett from under his eyelashes, and took his hand, gentle, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. It was weird and awkward because Eddy had made such an effort, and no one had ever tried so hard to please Brett, no one had ever spent so much time making sure that he enjoyed every single second.</p><p>And, sure, Eddy was lucky because there was a music festival on that day, and maybe he’d been planning that since way longer than Brett could even imagine. But it was nice. There was a baroque recital and they were in awe of the technique, and then an experimental jazz band-thingy, and they really tried to understand it but ended up having to leave because they couldn’t stop laughing. And Brett hadn’t had that much fun on a date in a while, but it was a date he still could’ve beaten.</p><p>He lost the moment he thought it was over, and it had been nice, and perhaps he could see it happening again. But then there was another concert, and Eddy took him to listen to the best Tchaik that he’d ever listened to, and they drank some cheap, disgusting champagne that was offered by the venue, and Brett could’ve cried because it was a wonderful, wonderful interpretation, and he was emotional, and Eddy, Eddy was watching him, looking at him like someone who’s in love, and it was just too much. Either that, or the alcohol.</p><p>And he lost, again, the moment they got back. The moment they took off their shoes and he had to hold onto Eddy’s arm for balance, and he’d made that dumb remark, something like ‘is this how you usually end a date’. And then Eddy’s hands were ghosting against his neck, barely touching, thumbs gently pushing his chin upwards, and Eddy’s kisses were soft, light, and he took all his time, and no one had ever done that.</p><p>And then he did it again, until Brett couldn’t breathe. Until his skin was tingling under Eddy’s hands as they went from his neck to his back, pulling him closer. Until he couldn’t tell whose heartbeat he was feeling, and it was all too much, and he had to flip the script, otherwise his brain would just explode. And so he took control, then, until somehow Eddy was sitting on the side of the bed and Brett could tower above him, for once, and kiss him the way he wanted. The possessive creature in his chest awoke again, then, and it sunk its claws deeper, and the only thought in Brett’s head was <em>mine</em>. ‘<em>Mine’</em>, he thought, with such ferocity that he had to take a step back and stare at Eddy with eyes wide.</p><p>The beast hasn’t gone back to sleep since that day.</p><p>Brett feels it, right under his skin, that tension that keeps building and building. It’s always there, yearning, electricity, and his skin feels taut, too tight against his chest, stretched with want. Something’s got to give, at some point.</p><p>They’re still the same. They rehearse together and go out for bubble teas, they go to class and follow their respective schedules, and nothing, nothing has changed. But Brett’s different. He doesn’t want to think about it. He knows what it is, knows what’s happening. He doesn’t want to recognise it. Doesn’t want to say the words first.</p><p>He notices everything, now. Beauty spots that he’d never seen before, small expressions, the blink of an eye, the strain in a smile. He’s not even staring more than usual. He just sees more, differently. He’s painfully aware of everything, over attentive, hyper aware, wired. <em>‘I like your fingers a lot’</em>, Eddy had said, and now it’s Brett who can’t help but notice the size of his hands, the shape of his fingers, every movement, every touch that has him on edge. He knows the words. Doesn’t want to say them.</p><p>Eddy’s in his dreams, too, a kaleidoscope of him, multiple versions, repeating random things he’s said throughout the day. And still the electricity, the tension. Brett doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be the guy who falls in love that fast, that easy, doesn’t want to be scared that Eddy might turn around and change his mind, realise that it wasn’t that, that he’d rather just stay friends.</p><p>He can’t go on like this.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Eddy asks one night, when Brett’s tossing and turning in his bed and can’t sleep because it won’t give, the weird sensation just won’t go away, he can feel the electricity coursing right underneath his skin, jolts and prickles keeping him awake.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” he says, his voice high and nervous, on edge.</p><p>“Brett?” he hears anxiety in Eddy’s voice, and it only triggers his.</p><p>He feels the bed dip slightly, and then cold fingers are gently brushing at his hair.</p><p>“Is there anything I can do?” Eddy asks.</p><p>Brett wants to scream and scream and scream. Anything, anything to let it out, to ease the pressure. Nothing’s alright. Nothing. He can’t go on like this.</p><p>“If this isn’t working for you, you need to tell me,” Eddy says. His voice is trembling and Brett comes out of his own mind. “It’s okay, we don’t have to go on,” Eddy says, but it’s not okay and Eddy’s cheeks are wet when Brett reaches out to touch.</p><p>It’s not okay, because Brett doesn’t know how to make Eddy understand that this has nothing to do with him, that it’s Brett, Brett who has to hold back because the violence of his feelings would drown them both if he doesn’t.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and lifts up the covers, says ‘come here’, pulls Eddy against his chest and everything’s easy again, just like that.  </p><p>It shouldn’t make a difference, whether Eddy needs to be comforted or not, but it does. It’s so easy, when Eddy needs him, to make space for him. To keep him pressed against his side, and have all that tension evaporate as Eddy wraps an arm across his chest. It’s so easy, when they’re like this, to kiss his forehead, his hair, his temple, to pet him, and it all gives. He can have this, to hold against him for now, warm skin and a steady heartbeat and soft lips against his own skin. Gentle fingers that trace light circles above his heart. Quiet kisses, again and again. He can have this, content sighs in his ear when he strokes Eddy’s back, shivers against the tip of his fingers when he brushes against slivers of bared skin.</p><p>“Eddy?”</p><p>“Hmm. Yeah?”</p><p>“Stay here, yeah?”</p><p>He’s going to regret it in the morning, when their backs hurt because of having to fit in this too small space, limbs bent in awkward positions, when they wake up and everything is weird, but he doesn’t want to let go tonight.</p><p>Eddy hums quietly as Brett lightly brushes the back of his neck with his fingertips, says ‘you’re so soft tonight’, and Brett feels him smile against his shoulder.</p><p>It’s not true, though. He’s not soft. What he wants to do is anything but soft. He wants to dig his fingers into Eddy’s skin, hold on, hold him in place, press him into his chest until they’re melted together, keep him there, keep him forever.</p><p>Keep him.</p><p>“Eddy?”</p><p>“Hmm. Yeah?”</p><p>“I’m in love with you, I think.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey, so... no update tomorrow, probably back on Saturday or more likely on Sunday.<br/>Hope this chapter makes up for it.<br/>&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sad one, babes, sad one</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 20 *</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He wakes up to the patter of the rain on the rooftop, and doesn’t want to get out of bed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The light seeping through the curtains is grey, his vision’s blurred without his glasses, and his head aches from not getting enough sleep. He could stay in bed all day, he thinks. He doesn’t have to work today, and has no other planned engagement. He could stay in bed all day, but he thinks about what his parents would say if they knew, and so he forces himself out of bed, like he has done so many times before, and shuffles to the kitchen to get some coffee. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He might as well try and turn this into a productive day. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whilst he waits for his drink to be ready, he goes down to the mailbox, and comes up with a stack of letters that must have been waiting there since… well, since the last time he checked. A couple of weeks, perhaps. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The envelopes have been opened before. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He sees it from the way they’ve been hastily glued back together. It hasn’t happened in a long time. Ten years, almost. Back when they were still looking. Back when they thought he was lying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever, right?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He never received any mail interesting enough to be read anyway. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looks through his mail over breakfast, tears the envelopes back open as he drinks his coffee. There’s nothing interesting, just like he expected. Bills, mostly. A notice about a dog lost in the neighbourhood. An invitation for an event at the university, that took place two days ago. A card from his mother. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s the only person Brett knows who still sends birthday wishes via the mail. She likes to hold on to traditions. He reads it and smiles a little, embarrassed. She’s getting more lyrical, and he’s afraid that it’s a sign of her aging rapidly. She’s saying things that she would never have said to his face ten, twenty years ago. You’re a good son, she writes, taking such good care of your parents. You were always talented… We wish you the best. It’s such a contrast to the things that he was used to hearing as a kid, back when all his efforts were always barely enough, when he had to work hard out of duty, and not to get any recognition for it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He feels nostalgia for his childhood, suddenly. Maybe his memories are warped, but it seems to him that it was a much sunnier time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The rain now pelting against his kitchen window is not helping his mood. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looks through the mail again. He shouldn’t be expecting anything else, but he still hopes. Some part of him, he thinks, will never stop hoping. </em>
</p><p><em>There’s seven years’ worth of sheet music, all neatly stacked on a shelf in his bedroom. He used to get a new piece each year, on his birthday. Some are more obscure than others. Janá</em><em>ček’s </em>String Quartet n°2 <em>is now stored next to Schubert’s </em>Serenade<em>, both squeezed between Tchaikovsky’s </em>Valse sentimentale<em> and Beethoven’s </em>Romance n°2<em>. There’s Massenet’s </em>Meditation<em> as well, a piece he knows by heart, next to Elgar’s </em>Serenade for strings<em> and Kreisler’s </em>Alt<em>-</em>Wiener Tanzweisen<em>, the last one to have arrived, three years ago today. </em></p><p>
  <em>He’s played some of these pieces again and again, until his fingers cramped and he couldn’t hold his bow. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He needs to get productive, so he dumps the mail into the bin. He saves his mother’s card at the last minute. He finishes breakfast while listening to the rain that has turned into a torrential downpour outside. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He zones out for a moment, thinking about birthday wishes and music sheet, and comes out of it surprised when he catches himself fingering Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto on his forearm. The sensation of his own fingers feels strange against his skin, almost like he isn’t used to touch anymore, even his own. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Practice, he thinks. He doesn’t have anything to do today. He might as well practice. Then he’ll make a list of some things to research for his lessons. New exercises for some of his students. And then, after having ordered some take away for lunch, he can play through the Tchaik once, just for his own pleasure, for the sake of memories. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Happy Birthday,’ Brett tells himself, and then he gets up to start working. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey, so, I’m going to be shit at updating regularly for a short while, and I apologize about that.<br/>Again, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. It still blows my mind that anyone might be interested in reading what my dumb mind comes up with.  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 8 *</p><p> </p><p>During his audition for the conservatory, Brett was asked what his dream piece was, the one that had motivated him to keep learning the violin so that he could get good enough to play it.</p><p>He remembers a moment of pure panic at that question. The sheer scope of it caused him to freeze, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember a single thing. It was as if all concertos, all sonatas had been momentarily erased from the face of the earth. For a moment, before he managed to heave himself out of the black hole, the only thing that came to his mind was ‘twinkle twinkle little star’, and he could feel the burning in the back of his neck.</p><p>Then he blinked himself out of his shocked stupor, and answered ‘Tchaikovsky violin concerto in D major’, and managed a half-decent explanation as to why this one.</p><p>He’s not sure whether the concerto is his favourite piece – there are so many – but it’s up there, among the best, so close to his heart. There’s something deeply reassuring in practicing it, in the familiarity of the melody, in the way his body remembers how to play. He’s methodical and determined in the way he polishes passages, and he feels calm, grounded.</p><p>“Bro, this is <em>your</em> piece…”</p><p>Brett turns his head. Eddy’s lying on his back on Brett’s bed, arms crossed behind his head. He’s got his eyes closed and he smiles. He’s not supposed to be there. He should be in class, but he’s been kicked out for talking. He doesn’t seem to care. Brett watches him while his eyes are still closed. If Eddy can’t see, then he doesn’t have to hide.</p><p>“If you’re going to be here, you might as well give me some constructive feedback.”</p><p>“I have nothing. You’re too good. Teach me.”</p><p>Brett smiles. “You’re so stupid. Are you trying to bribe me again?”</p><p>“Is it working?”</p><p>Eddy’s eyes open. There’s a look in them that Brett can only translate as ‘come to me’, and he’s too weak to resist so he puts down his instrument and sits next to him.</p><p>“Depends. What do you want?”</p><p>Eddy catches Brett’s chin with his fingers and smiles. He doesn’t even have to pull for Brett to come down and meet him in a kiss. It’s ridiculously good for a moment, and then Eddy pushes him away with mischief in his eyes.</p><p>“Serenade me.”</p><p>Brett feels almost relieved that Eddy’s choosing to joke over this. He doesn’t want to be called out over heart eyes that he can’t manage to hide anymore. So he stands up and takes his instrument.</p><p>“Go to class,” he tells Eddy, half-heartedly, as he ruffles his hair. “Be a good kid.”</p><p>“Play for me,” Eddy murmurs lazily, and Brett’s pretty sure that the dumbass is going to fall asleep at some point.</p><p>He isn’t sure if he’s playing for Eddy, but he’s pretty certain that his playing’s about him, and he fears it shows. It’s scary, that sometimes he thinks that there are only two things that he needs in the world, and that both these things are in this tiny room. There are moments, often, when he thinks that it can’t be good to rely solely on this to make or break his life.</p><p>He knows that he falls in love easily, that he’s easily charmed by soft eyes or a musical laughter, by the shape of a wrist or the curve of a neck, but he’s usually good at controlling it, holding it in.</p><p>This is not the same. The more time passes, the more he understands that it’s different. He’s not controlling anything, and holding his feelings in is quickly turning into a wistful dream. He’s utterly, utterly defeated, consumed by dumb smiles, by pretty eyes, by a sense of humour that matches his and a personality that’s just different enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s looking in the mirror. Brett’s never believed in soulmates, but goddammit this is the closest he’ll ever come to anything that feels like it.</p><p>Sometimes, he wishes Eddy would just ask, and then Brett would be allowed to give him anything, anything he wants. But Eddy doesn’t ask, doesn’t need Brett to give more than he’s already giving. So Brett holds back, and Eddy doesn’t know, then, that Brett wants to own and be owned even more. That he wants to touch him, all the time, every sliver of skin he wants to make his, map with his fingertips, with his lips and his mouth and his tongue, with every inch of his own skin.</p><p>He’s too old for this, too old be swept off his feet like that, like a teenager hit by the force of a first love.</p><p>Or he’s too young, maybe, for how definitive this feels. He thinks about his mother’s dreams for him, dreams of a prestigious career, of a stable life with a family and a nice house, a picture perfect image of success, of establishment.</p><p>Does Eddy’s mother share the same dreams for her son? He remembers her face like it was yesterday. The looks she gave him when she left Eddy here in his first year. ‘Will you take care of my boy’ she seemed to ask him, ‘will you hold his hand and make sure he doesn’t falter?’ He sometimes wonders if he’s imagined it or if it was real.</p><p>Whatever it was, he’s pretty sure she wasn’t thinking about it literally, fingers loosely intertwined when they drink bubble tea on the seats outside, lazy touches to make sure that the other’s still close. He’s pretty sure that she didn’t think taking care of Eddy meant letting him sneak into his bed at night and curl up at the edge with his back pressed against Brett’s chest, with Brett’s arm wound around his waist, with Brett’s palm flat against his chest as if he were trying to feel his heartbeat, with Brett’s face resting between Eddy’s shoulder-blades at night, with sleepy kisses pressed to Eddy’s neck in-between murmured I love yous. </p><p>“You’re not focused anymore,” Eddy says, “this is unhelpful practice.”</p><p>Brett wills himself back to reality, out of his thoughts, in time to let Eddy take away his violin and kiss the top of his head.</p><p>“Sorry, I zoned out.”</p><p>“Yeah. I wonder where you go when that happens.” Eddy’s talking to himself more than to Brett. “Come, let’s get some food, hey.”</p><p>Brett follows because that’s the only thing he could do. They walk out, pass the surveillance cameras that have been freshly installed at the entrance of the building, and Brett laughs as Eddy grumbles something about an invasion of privacy.</p><p>“Are you scared that they’ll film you making out on the seats over there?” Brett asks in a chuckle.</p><p>Eddy seems about to say something serious, but then he catches himself and wiggles his eyebrows. “Do you want to make out on the seats?”</p><p>“Tempting, but I’d rather get food.”</p><p>“I’m offended,” Eddy says, hand on heart, and Brett laughs.</p><p>They get food and Eddy insists on ice-cream, even if it’s not warm enough for it. Brett’s not hard to convince anyway. Though he would have preferred bubble tea. Eddy’s pretty hyper after that. Brett suspects that it’s on purpose, to prevent him from getting lost in thoughts again, but he jokes about sugar high anyway. He’s also pretty sure that Eddy wants something. But on the other hand, he can hardly resist viola and Debussy jokes himself.</p><p>It’s not really a date, but it’s not exactly the same as going out with friends either, and the best way Brett could describe evenings like this is ‘comfortable’. It’s like hanging out with your best friend, if your best friend kissed the side of your neck when no one was looking and held your hand under the table, loosely moving his fingers up your thigh with a wicked grin.</p><p>Eddy comes to sleep in his bed that night, like he often does. Brett has given up on pointing out that there’s not enough space for two, that they’ll ruin their backs.</p><p>“I love you,” Eddy murmurs against Brett’s lips, between lazy kisses and light petting, and Brett’s heard it before, but his heart still does a somersault in his chest.</p><p>He draws lazy circles on Eddy’s hipbone with his thumb, eyes half closed, warm and comfortable and half-asleep already, until Eddy’s hovering above him suddenly, holding himself up on his forearm, fingers brushing against Brett’s ear.</p><p>His other hand’s under Brett’s shirt, and then Brett’s fully awake again, and he watches as Eddy explores with the tip of his fingers, eyes shining dark under the half-light, and it’s a touch so light that it almost feels like overstimulation.</p><p>“Yes?” Eddy asks, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, and Brett responds in a breath.</p><p>Eddy places hesitant kisses against his jaw and his neck, and Brett tries to arch his back to meet Eddy’s skin, but Eddy doesn’t let him, his hand relocated to Brett’s hip, his lips moving to Brett’s collarbone, and down, slow, light.</p><p>There’s kisses pressed to the inside of his thigh, then, and his fingers tremble against the sheets until Eddy looks up, brings one hand to the side of his head, says ‘guide me, maybe’.</p><p>He bites his lips, the inside of his cheek, his other hand, to hold back noise, tries not to swear, says ‘fuck’ several times and ‘Eddy’ just as much, warm, feels his toes curl, warm, soft, wet, feels the muscles in his thighs tense, again, please, manages to pull Eddy’s head up just in time, comes with a strangled, wounded sound that makes Eddy chuckle.</p><p>Eddy looks at the time on his phone after he’s gone to get some water and smiles to himself.</p><p>“Happy birthday, hey,” he says as he flops back on the bed, half crushing Brett under his weight.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello, dear readers.<br/>I’ve had a long thought about this story. I have a problem with it. Not with the way it’s written (eh, debatable, but not the point), or with the story I’m clumsily trying to tell. Here’s my struggle. My plan is to have past and present converge into the revelation of what happened. If I tell you beforehand, I’m ruining the entire plot. But, as a reader, I understand that you might want to know what you’re getting into. Do you see the conundrum?  I don’t want you to feel tricked into reading something that you didn’t think you were reading.<br/>It’s just a rant. I wanted to let you know that I’m a little uncomfortable (again, not with what I’ve written – it’s a story about people and how they evolve in the world they live in and how that impacts them – , or the way I’ve written it. My problem is that I didn’t tell you clearly what this is about for the sake of the plot, and that feels a bit like betrayal).<br/>I felt like I needed to share.<br/>Thank you for reading.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 21 *</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Teachers shouldn’t have favourites, Brett knows it. He should treat all his students the same –and he does, he does not make a difference between them in the way he teaches them and grades them. But he can’t help feeling a certain fondness for some more than others, those who remind him of people he knew, of himself, of old friends that he hasn’t seen in over a decade. He tells himself that he shouldn’t, but he gets invested in their progress. It’s his own victory, when they nail a passage or a technique. It’s genuine happiness that he feels when they win a competition. He’d like to convince himself that they have a bright future, and that there are things that he can do to help them reach their dreams. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s had a soft spot for the Navarra couple since the beginning. He’s not sure why. Maybe because they were among the first ones to show up at his office. Or because they’ve always been consistent, both in their personal and joint sessions. He likes their commitment, their drive. Whatever their personal project is, they seemed determined to reach it, and the accidental comedy in their interactions makes him smile. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s a surprise, then, when one day she shows up alone to a lesson that was meant for two. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Did I remember wrong?” Brett asks as he takes a look at his schedule, although he knows he doesn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her answer is incoherent. She eventually settles for ‘just me, sir’. There’s something almost feral in her eyes, an anger that’s bubbling right under the surface and that she barely manages to control. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s none of his business, so Brett just says: “It’s okay. We can work on your piece. You were preparing the Barber violin concerto, right?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She nods, jaw tight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He leaves her to tune and goes looking for the sheet music in his library. He wasn’t prepared for the change, but they can work around it. And she does need to work on her Barber. It can’t hurt. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t have to be particularly perceptive to know that this lesson’s not going to amount to anything. He hears it the moment she brings her bow to the A string. He turns to look. Her hands are trembling and he has to take her instrument from her, otherwise he fears that she’s going to drop it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This isn’t just performance anxiety, and he’s a little uncomfortable prying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you need a moment?” he asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She throws him a nasty look. “I’m fine. I can play.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shakes his head and refuses to give her violin back. He’s never seen someone’s hands shake that much, even before a competition or a concert. She sees him look, and balls her hands into fists until the knuckles turn white. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can play,” she says through gritted teeth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s afraid that she’s going to cry when he asks her if she’s alright, and he’s too afraid to ask if it has anything to do with her partner’s absence. He’s not prepared for her anger when she answers both his questions, the one he’s asked and the one he hasn’t.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No. I’m – he’s… He’s not going to come next... I know he was supposed to… on Tuesday… They’ve… He’s been expelled.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t really understand at first. If he’d been told that one of them would get expelled, he would’ve bet on her. It’s not a very charitable thought, but she seemed to be more likely to. Her partner always seemed pretty harmless. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What happened?” he can’t stop the question before it passed his lips, and winces inwardly. He’s not here to pry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She throws him a nasty look, like it’s his fault, her lips curling into a mean rictus, showing teeth like a wounded dog. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What happened, yeah?” her voice rises dangerously. “They won’t even tell me where he’s gone.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something builds in Brett’s chest, something that resembles a tightness that he’d almost forgotten. He opens his mouth to speak, and nothing comes out. He knows the feeling, and he thinks ‘not again, please’. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can talk to the dean,” he offers without thinking about it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s almost disdainful, the look she throws his way. “Professor Emerson already tried. Don’t waste your time.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s an awful silence between them that goes on for way too long, and Brett doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to push her out of his office, but it’s obvious now that there won’t be any lesson today, or anytime soon. He’s not prepared for any of this. He has no idea how he could even react appropriately. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He sees what’s going to happen a second before it actually does, and tries to reach out but can’t grab her bow before she snaps it in two over her knee. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck this,” she says, and throws it across the room.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Calm yourself down, please.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know what? Fuck you too. What good is this, uh? Making us believe that there’s hope. He wanted to be a soloist, did you know? Play all across the world. Change stuff. I tried to tell him… Like any of us were ever going to leave this shithole.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett feels a cold sweat on his back, an all too familiar feeling of panic brewing in the pit of his stomach. He likes them, all these kids, and he only wishes the best for them. It’s a tight rope to walk, encouraging them while also trying to keep them from dreaming too big, and he fears he’s failed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“For the love of God, keep your voice down.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She spits on the ground at his feet. “You, Emerson, all of you, you’ve all failed us.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She slams the door when she leaves. Doesn’t even ask for her violin back.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yeah, so this where it starts getting not fun (‘wait, what? it was fun until now?’ ‘yep, yeah. this was the fun part’).<br/>thank you so much for reading. i’ve said it before and i don’t want to sound repetitive, but it’s true, it blows my mind that people might enjoy my quarantine divagations, and i’m very thankful.<br/>have a nice day, and take care of yourself. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 9 *</p><p> </p><p>Brett’s last year of university is perhaps the worst. He bites more than he can chew, probably. He’s stuck between school work and practice, between competitions and rehearsals, gets a job in orchestra on the side, is called as a casual more often once the ballet season starts, and has hardly a minute to himself anymore. He doesn’t have time for any other thoughts, but he worries about his playing constantly. Despite his best efforts, he feels his dreams of becoming a soloist slowly slipping through his fingers. He knows he’s good, has known since he was twelve, but he’s slowly starting to figure out that he just might not be good enough. He’s afraid that giving up on the dream completely might leave him diminished in a way.</p><p>He’d go crazy, honestly, if it weren’t for Eddy.</p><p>The only things that make the frantic days bearable are the evenings and nights spent with Eddy, the calming effect of his voice on Brett, the grounding warmth of his skin, every inch of it his now, soft and familiar. After days spent running around like a headless chicken, desperate to catch up with everything, it’s a relief to come back to someone who shares his interests, understands his struggles, doesn’t try to force unnecessary words out of him.</p><p>He’d expected time to tame his feelings, he’d hoped for it, even, but it doesn’t pass, the need of him, the urgency of having him close, of touching and holding and knowing that things won’t change, no matter what.</p><p>His own possessiveness scares him sometimes.</p><p>He doesn’t know how to reconcile it with the image of himself he’s carefully constructed. He acts like it’s not there, deep in his chest, but knows he’s not fooling anyone, least of all Eddy. Eddy, who pushes into it, relentless. Who pulls confessions out of him with nimble fingers and knowing smiles, and who leans into Brett until he’s all mellowed out and quietened.</p><p>Eddy, who’s not without jealousy either, like when he waits for Brett outside one of his lectures one day, and gets annoyed by something he hears. He’s upset and moody, but refuses to tell the reason until Brett wrenches it out of him. He takes on a high-pitched voice, then, mimicking some of Brett’s classmates. ‘Ooooh, Brett is so cute,’ Eddy says with a wince, and Brett laughs and laughs, says, ‘am I not, then?’ Eddy says nothing, pouts, his face all scrunched up and his eyes defiant and there’s a warm flower that blossoms in Brett’s heart, spreads its tendrils all across his chest. Eddy says nothing but Brett can read ‘mine’ in that look, and he relishes the feeling of belonging. He nudges Eddy with his fingers, cues him with his chin, until he comes down to kiss him, in the middle of the hallway for everyone to see.</p><p>None of them know what they’re doing or where they’re going.</p><p>Brett thinks that they can just wing it.</p><p>Secretly, he dreams about a nice house, a grand piano in the corner of the living room, a puppy to play with in the garden. He thinks that if he can’t be a soloist, then he can get a job in orchestra, thinks that they can play together, at work and at home, go to sleep in a nice bed and wake up tangled in each other’s warmth, thinks that nothing has to change, really, because everything’s good as it is.</p><p>Eddy thinks that things won’t be easy, thinks he’ll struggle to find a job when he graduates, worries that Brett will find someone better in a professional orchestra, tells him that it’s a joke but Brett can see it’s not.  </p><p>Eddy worries about the way things are going around them, worries about the future of classical music, about the future of everything.</p><p>Brett worries that Eddy’s anxiety will get the better of him once he’s no longer there to watch him every day.</p><p>He tells Eddy that they’ll be fine. That they’ll always be fine because they can count on each other.</p><p>Eddy tells him that he sometimes fears that none of them will be fine in the end.</p><p>They talk about it a lot. These are long discussions that keep them awake all night. In the end, they always end up on the same thing: they need each other too much to let anything change between them. It’s a relief to discover that they can talk through any problem. Even when they’re tired or stressed or frustrated, they can work together to find a solution. Brett comes to think that maybe he doesn’t need a brilliant career as a soloist, doesn’t need to travel the world to give recitals, if this is what he can come home to everyday. He thinks that maybe this is it. It’s not even scary to think that he’s found someone he could spend the rest of his life with. He slowly comes to terms with it.</p><p>Things return to normal. Brett stops worrying about his playing. Eddy keeps his anxiety at bay.</p><p>They hold each other too tight at night. It doesn’t show during the day.</p><p>Eddy gets Brett an awful, second-hand viola for his birthday that year. It’s so cheap that it’s impossible to tune. He finds it hilarious. His glee, when he gives it to Brett, almost makes it worth it.</p><p>Brett thinks about retaliating, but can’t find a cheap enough piccolo.</p><p>Eddy cackles like a maniac, considers it a victory. Then he cries when Brett ruins himself to get them tickets to go see one of their favourite soloist play the Sibelius violin concerto later that year. He doesn’t say that this is Eddy’s birthday present but they both know.</p><p>Eddy cries even harder when they come out of the concert hall, says ‘there’s no way I can top that, now’.</p><p>Brett doesn’t say anything but thinks that Eddy surpassed it a long time ago, surpassed it the day he sat on Brett’s bed and said ‘do you want to kiss me?’.</p><p>They lie in the dark for a long time that night, and Brett can tell that Eddy’s not sleeping just by the way he breathes. He worries that something has triggered his anxiety again, but then Eddy turns to him, his hands reaching out for Brett’s. He holds them to his chest for a moment.</p><p>Eddy’s chest starts to shake, then, and Brett’s afraid that he’s crying again, but when he moves his hands to Eddy’s cheeks, they’re perfectly dry. A chuckle escapes and he realises that Eddy’s laughing.</p><p>“The fuck are you laughing about?” he whispers, but Eddy’s having a fit of wild laughter by that point and it seems to take ages to die down.</p><p>“Somewhere in admissions, there’s an old dude who thought that it was a good idea to have us share a room.”</p><p>“That’s why you’re laughing?”</p><p>“Hm. Well, yeah. Can’t imagine he’d agree with this, you know.” He pushes his chest against Brett’s, nudges his head against his neck to kiss his collarbone.</p><p>“You never know…”</p><p>“True. Whatever it is, I should be thankful. Do you ever think that without that, we wouldn’t have any of this?”</p><p>To be honest, Brett’s never thought about that, no. “You think that I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you otherwise?”  </p><p>“I’m pretty sure yeah. You wouldn’t have looked at me twice. You were just too cool for that,” Eddy says very quietly.</p><p>Brett just has to laugh at that. “Dude, I was playing it up to impress you.” He runs his hands down Eddy’s sides and up his back, and kisses his neck. “Besides, you’re pretty dumb if you think that people don’t look at you twice.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Eddy looks at him through his eyelashes, and Brett wonders if he does it on purposes or if he truly doesn’t realise how fucking hot this all is, how fucking crazy it drives him.</p><p>“Yeah, even though they’d better not, because you’re mine.” He normally wouldn’t say it that directly, but with Eddy’s chest pressed against his own, with his fingers digging into his skin, with their legs tangled together, it’s not like he’s got anything left to hide. When they’re like this and that he can feel Eddy’s heart against his skin, almost as if it were beating inside his own chest, it’s hard not to think that Eddy belongs to him, now, forever.</p><p>Eddy almost purrs at that, pushes his body further against Brett, hands up his chest, at his neck, in his hair, hips rocking against Brett’s. “Yours,” he says with wonder. “Yours. And you’re mine, mine, mine.”</p><p>Brett wants to say yes, that he’s Eddy’s, that it’s all he’s ever wanted, to belong to him, but he can’t talk. It’s almost too much, all of this. All he can do is touch, and kiss, and hope that it is enough.</p><p>“I’m never going to fall in love with anyone else,” Eddy says, and Brett’s heart explodes in his chest.</p><p>The year ends too quickly.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Can we agree that it’s unfair that I write over 20.000 words around music uni life, making stuff up as I go along, and that when it’s almost over, those two dumbasses release a video talking about music uni life? </p><p>Anyway, thanks for reading. You’re the best. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 22 *</p><p> </p><p>"All of you, you’ve all failed us."</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He can’t get it out of his head. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t need one more thing to keep him up at night, but the accusation keeps ringing in his ears. He can understand that it’s been thrown at him out of anguish more than genuine anger, but it doesn’t make him any less uncomfortable. And maybe his generation really did fail, maybe, maybe they could have done more, should have done more, but the bile with which the words were spat feels entirely undeserved. It’s thoroughly unfair, when he’s already lost so much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Keeps worrying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Keeps thinking about her words, her anger. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Keeps hoping that he’s reading too much into this. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She never shows up again, and he’s still got her violin. He tries asking around, but doesn’t know where to go. Something tells him that going to the academic authorities would not help anyone. He asks his other students. None of them know. Someone says something about being sent back home. It doesn’t make any sense to him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He tries to drop it, forget it. These kids are adults, after all. They can make their own decisions, follow their own path. He’s not there to babysit them or mother-hen them.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The violin and broken bow remain in his office, a constant reminder that he doesn’t have the courage to look deeper. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>He’s in Professor Emerson’s office – he’s come to borrow a course book – when he remembers that the girl mentioned her talking to the dean or something, so he figures he might as well ask. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She seems troubled when he does. She looks at him sternly when he asks, and he finally sees why most of her students are afraid of her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why are you asking?” she says. All friendliness seems to have deserted her voice. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He thought they were friends. He’s even heard some students speculate as to the nature of their relationship, as students do. It doesn’t show right now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I still have her violin.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Her face mellows, but just a little. Actually, he thinks, she seems as tired as he is. Maybe even more. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I called her parents so that they’d come and get her," she tells him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“But why?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She stares, incredulous. “Are you seriously asking?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This’ll ruin any chance of a career…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Everybody heard the scene she made in your office. She’s better at home where they can keep an eye on her. Stop her from starting something that she…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She doesn’t finish her sentence, but looks at the door, clearly signifying him to leave. Her looks says ‘be careful’, but Brett thinks ‘fuck it’, and powers through. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What about her friend? What happened to him? She said you’d…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She doesn’t even let him finish his sentence. “Get out of my office,” she says, voice blank. “Please.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He remembers a time when he wondered who he could trust, when he first arrived here. He remembers wondering if her kindness was real or feigned. He sees it in her eyes, now. She doesn’t trust him, either. They’ve both been pretending, playing friendly this all time. She’s scared. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They’re all so fucking scared. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>"You, Emerson, all of you, you’ve all failed us."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>They say history doesn’t repeat itself, but it often rhymes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He still doesn’t sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A thousand thank yous for reading this. We’re so near the end now. <br/>My soundtrack while writing this has mostly been Lang Lang’s Liszt album, in case you're interested (which is weird, considering that Shostakovich’s ghost loomed behind the creation of this project from the beginning). <br/>Have a really nice day, and take care &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 10 *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The day Brett graduates, Eddy fusses over him like an overenthusiastic relative, sending him proud smiles from across the room, taking pictures to document the whole thing. It’s weird and probably a little uncomfortable, but he seems so genuinely happy that Brett says nothing about it. He’d suffer through any slightly uncomfortable experience two times over if it makes Eddy happy like that. </p>
<p>Brett worries the entire time about the way to introduce him properly to his parents. He’s mentioned him in passing before, during holidays and phone calls, but he feels like he’s always downplayed the whole thing, and he’s pretty sure they think that it’s a fleeting crush, a phase maybe. The words ‘love of my life’ get caught in his throat – too cheesy, too corny – leave him stuttering and uncomfortable, but Eddy says ‘boyfriend’, all charming smiles and flattering words, and Brett almost want to tease him about his shyness that’s suddenly disappeared, but he doesn’t because, truth be told, he’s as charmed as his parents.</p>
<p>It doesn’t go as badly as he’d thought. Eddy seems pleased, anyway, holding his hand the whole time, hopeful, proud, and his parents don’t leave angry. They’re likely not thrilled, but they don’t dislike Eddy, and it’s probably as good as he could have hoped for.</p>
<p>It’s harder than he ever would’ve thought, to say goodbye to the room that they shared. He feels weirdly nostalgic, and quiet and introspective. Eddy makes fun of him.</p>
<p>He gets a job in orchestra pretty much immediately after graduating, he’s just that good, or at least it’s what Eddy says, not at all surprised when Brett tells him the news. It’s not the soloist position that he dreamt about as a child, but he feels he’s grown enough to accept that some things change.</p>
<p>Moving in on his own for the first time ever feels weird, empty spaces are hard to fill with just the sound of one violin.</p>
<p>It all takes some getting used to. It’s a new job, a new rhythm, a new life. It’s a bit lonely at times, but he gets on with most of his orchestra, there’s a lot to practice, a lot to get done and a lot more to learn, still. When he’s in rehearsal or in concert, everything seems to fall into place, the warmth of the stage lights, the murmurs of the audience, the shared energy of a group of people working towards the same dream.  It’s when he’s not on call, when he’s alone, that it gets harder, that he feels Eddy’s absence like a blow to the back of the head, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.</p>
<p>Without the pressure of university and competitions, without the weight of combining work and studies, without the all-encompassing presence of Eddy at his side, he has to re-acclimate to the outside, has to take a closer look at the world around him.</p>
<p>It’s not as pretty as he thought it was.</p>
<p>It’s in the little things, a hundred puny changes that he’s somehow missed when they took place, a thousand tiny shifts making life a little more uncomfortable, a little harder for everyone. He feels vaguely worried, wonders when it happened and how he didn’t notice.  There’s an unrest that’s growing, like an undercurrent right beneath the surface. He can’t really pinpoint what it is, but it’s there.</p>
<p>It gets better when Eddy comes over. His company mellows everything, leaves Brett quieter, calmer, more hopeful, somehow. It’s the familiarity of conversations they’ve had a dozen times over, the comfort of inside jokes that they’ve repeated so often that they’re deformed and distorted and only just funny to them, the warmth of a skin that he knows like his own.</p>
<p>It’s in the little things, the myriad of small moments that feel like home, soft and easy, the controlled chaos that they managed to create whenever one of them throws a crazy idea into the air. It’s trying to cook something together, Eddy somehow always completely useless, almost a hazard to himself. It’s unplugging for an hour, just lounging around with a recording in the background. It’s video games and movies and hours and hours of practice that turn into competitions. It’s waking up well-rested, at last, comforted by the weight of a familiar body against his own.</p>
<p>There’s something about having Eddy inhabit his space like that, shiny eyes and delighted chuckles, that makes him want to do the stupidest things like maybe drop everything to tour the world with him in some way or drop down on one knee someday, but mostly just unleash all the recklessness that he has to hold in when he’s performing with the orchestra. As long as he remains serious about the music, serious about the job, he doesn’t have to be serious about anything else. Having Eddy there allows him that.</p>
<p>On days when Eddy’s there, Brett wants to lock the door and leave work and university and the rest of the world outside so that it’s only just them.</p>
<p>It’s a vain hope, though, because more times than not, Eddy brings the outside world and all its complexity with him when he passes the door.</p>
<p>“My new roommate is the worst,” Eddy says as he arrives.</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?”                                                  </p>
<p>Sometimes Brett feels like they’re an old married couple, with the familiarity with which they interact. He’s aware of each one of Eddy’s movements by simple force of habit, can track him in his mind as he takes his shoes off at the door, comes in the living room to drop a kiss to the side of his head, heads to the bedroom to dump his bag there before he comes back to kiss Brett properly. They’re like an old married couple, and it’s not bad at all.</p>
<p>“It’ll be a miracle if I don’t punch him before the end of the year.”</p>
<p>“He’s annoying, uh?” Brett chuckles. “Now you know what I felt. <em>Hey Brett</em><em>, Brett! Brett! Dude, look at what I found, look at this, look at that, can you show me how you do that, what bowing do you use here…” </em></p>
<p>“Ok, ok, I get it. I was annoying. But at least I wasn’t fucking my way through the entirety of the first years.”</p>
<p>“Thank god. D’you want to vent?”</p>
<p>Eddy looks like he’s genuinely thinking for a moment, and seems to decide against it. “Let’s get something to eat, yeah?” </p>
<p>“Already ordered Thai food. You’re staying the night, right?”</p>
<p>The smile on Eddy’s face tells Brett all he needs to know. “Sure, if you want me.”</p>
<p>A delighted chuckle.</p>
<p>“Serious question though, bro,” Eddy continues, “can I play you my Barber later? I’d like some feedback.”</p>
<p>If he’s being honest, he doesn’t hear half of the Barber violin concerto that Eddy plays later that evening, too entranced by the dance of his fingers, by the way his violin rests on his shoulder, by the curve of his neck and the movement of his right forearm. He forces himself to pay attention only to the music, closes his eyes in the hopes of gaining focus. He admits to himself, then, that he misses Eddy more than he should when he’s not there, that it’s hard to only see him occasionally, but it’s just one year, goddammit, and he’s not so weak that they can’t be apart for a few days without him losing his mind over the smallest patch of skin or hint of muscle.</p>
<p>Eddy’s troubled that night, and it’s not over the Barber concerto or his roommate. Brett lets him come, doesn’t push, and he gets the answer with the sunrise the next morning, when Eddy’s all calm and rested and a little bit hazy still.</p>
<p>“They’ve pulled the funding for the conservatory’s philharmonic orchestra,” he says, face hidden in the crook of Brett’s neck.</p>
<p>He makes it sound like it’s no big deal, just mentioned in passing, but Brett knows that it’s not. Eddy’s been jealously nursing the position of concertmaster of their university’s orchestra for the last two years, truly an achievement. If there’s no funding, the orchestra isn’t likely to survive.</p>
<p>“Why though?”</p>
<p>“Fuck do I know. They didn’t like the program we played last year? They’ve been pulling funding for the arts left and right anyway, not just in unis. Give it a couple of years and we’ll all be starving.”</p>
<p>Brett doesn’t know what to say, because Eddy sounds upset, and it’s rare enough that it needs to be noted.</p>
<p>“Dude, I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“ ’S fine. I’m not angry. Just worried.”</p>
<p>He scratches distractedly at Eddy’s neck. They’ve had discussions like this before, about classical music and how to approach it, now and in the future, but this one seems to run deeper, somehow.</p>
<p>“We’ve talked about this before, yeah, that classical music will have to find new ways to fund itself…”</p>
<p>Eddy sighs. Brett feels it against his skin.</p>
<p>“Sure.” He gets away from Brett and sits up. “But it’s like my friend Jen says, they can’t keep pushing like that, though,” Eddy says softly. “People are going to break at some point.”</p>
<p>With the light coming from the window all around him, Eddy seems strangely far away. Brett wants to reach out and follow the line of his spine with his fingertips, but he doesn’t.</p>
<p>“We’re going to be fine,” Brett says. “We’re just musicians, how much could it impact us, hey?”</p>
<p>“Tell that to Shostakovich. His life was pretty shit.”</p>
<p>“We don’t live under an authoritarian regime, Eddy.”</p>
<p>Eddy turns his head, serious. He takes Brett’s hand, pulls him towards him and folds around Brett in that way that he always does, arms wrapped a little too tight around Brett, holding him in place with his chin over Brett’s left shoulder, and Brett can feel the bones and muscles with each intake of breath.</p>
<p>“Could’ve fooled me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading. <br/>Have a nice day, and please take care of yourself.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 23 *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>The atmosphere the following days keeps getting heavier. It feels a little like the moments just before a thunderstorm, when you can tell it’s coming, but you can’t say when. There’s an unrest that’s growing, like an undercurrent right beneath the surface. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He’s felt it before. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For now, it’s limited to the students, but something’s been stirred. He feels discomfort all the way through his bones, a nasty feeling, chilling him to the marrow. He knows how these things end, now. He’s seen it before. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He still doesn’t sleep and everything is hazy.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He lives off caffeine alone, and he can feel the twitches right under his skin. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It stays like this for the longest time, restless, with the feeling that something’s about to happen, but nothing ever does. They’re all walking on the edge but no one’s willing to jump. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For a moment, it seems as if it will pass. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The end of the semester arrives, and it all breaks up. The tension vanishes just like it had appeared, students too preoccupied by grades and exams to start anything. It’s almost like they all breathe a collective sigh of relief, then. Like the worst has been avoided, maybe. All the restlessness fizzles out, and it’s just exhaustion, then, that remains. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>They come to arrest Emerson on the last day of the semester, right as she’s finishing her last lecture. She must’ve known it was coming, really, because she doesn’t bat an eyelid when they take her away. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Officially, it’s tax evasion.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Unofficially… it’s a warning, but Brett can’t decide whether it’s directed at the students or the teachers. </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey! Thank you for your time. Hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself. <br/>This fic has been mentally exhausting to write (talk about dreadful timing). I feel like I’ve been at it for forever, even though it’s been just over a month. Hopefully I can finish it by the end of next week, and then it’ll be short, nice oneshots and nothing more.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Obligatory warning that we've reached the end of the nice part.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>* 11 *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Once he starts noticing, it keeps happening. It’s little, insignificant things – a tiny change here, a few more cameras there, a law that’s slightly modified for no apparent reason – and then suddenly it’s not so small anymore, and was there always that much surveillance around, where have all the newspapers gone, when did they lose freedom of assembly?</p>
<p>It’s unsettling, and Brett keeps thinking about something Eddy said.</p>
<p>
  <em>People are going to break at some point.</em>
</p>
<p>It gets worse when Eddy comes over. His company reminds Brett of just how much he has to lose, leaves him agitated, restless, more despondent, somehow. It’s the restraint of conversation where none of them dare to voice what they really think, the discomfort of knowing that things are just not quite right but not knowing what they can do about it, the coldness of goodbyes that come too early.</p>
<p>Brett’s desperate to pretend like nothing’s going to change. They practice and joke around and play dumb games on the violin, they get bubble teas and drink them while watching movies, they go to see that famous pianist play Rachmaninov and it’s absolutely enchanting, and it doesn’t feel like it’s the last time.</p>
<p>On days when Eddy’s there, Brett wants to lock the door, barrage against the outside world, so that it’s only just them.</p>
<p>The atmosphere keeps getting heavier, though, and it feels like something’s about to happen.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It bursts like thunder, and suddenly people are in the streets.</p>
<p>For a moment, it feels like change.</p>
<p>For a moment, it feels like hope.</p>
<p>Universities soon become the epicentres of the protests.</p>
<p>The first time that Eddy gets arrested, they don’t make too much of it. Wrong place, wrong time, they think. He’s out before they even have the time to worry about it.</p>
<p>The second time, Brett has to get him some lotion for his wrists and he probably hurts more than Eddy as he rubs it on the bruise. He’s got an uneasy feeling in his chest.</p>
<p>“Be careful, hey.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Eddy says, offended.</p>
<p>“I know. I’m not saying… I worry, that’s all.”</p>
<p>There’s a long silence and Brett wonders what Eddy’s thinking.</p>
<p>“It’s because of the open letter,” he says eventually.</p>
<p>It takes a moment for Brett to know what Eddy’s talking about. “The one about the Con’s orchestra? The one for the university newspaper?”</p>
<p>Eddy nods and Brett remembers. Eddy’s penned it at Brett’s kitchen table, still upset about what was happening to the orchestra, just a few words to denounce the lack of funding, and neither of them thought much of it at the time. Brett’s pretty sure nobody even read it when it came out.</p>
<p>But now things are different and it reads much more political than intended. Now it’s circulating, and it’s got Eddy’s name attached to it, and he doesn’t like it.</p>
<p>“They think I know who’s organizing the protests,” Eddy says softly.</p>
<p>“Do you?”</p>
<p>Eddy vaguely shrugs, noncommittally.</p>
<p>The third time it happens, they don’t talk about it, but Brett knows there’s nothing soft about the way he holds onto Eddy that night.</p>
<p>He’s desperate in the way he touches and kisses him, and he knows Eddy can tell.</p>
<p>“Brett, Brett… it’s alright.”</p>
<p>With Eddy’s hands in his hair and on his face, he’s almost inclined to believe it.</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah… I just… I love you, you know. I love you too much.”</p>
<p>He wants to focus on Eddy, on what he wants, what he needs, but there’s a voice in the back of his mind that keeps reminding him that he won’t be able to live without him.</p>
<p>It takes a lot of control, to quieten the thought, hours of skin and lips and just Eddy, nothing but him under his fingers.</p>
<p>It doesn’t last long, the quiet.</p>
<p>“I’m scared,” Eddy confesses a couple of days later.</p>
<p>Brett grabs at Eddy’s shirt a little convulsively and pulls him towards him, forehead over Eddy’s right shoulder and arms trapping him in place. Brett knows he’s holding on too tight and it’s probably extremely uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to let go. After a while, Eddy frees his arms and slowly runs shaking hands along Brett’s back.</p>
<p>“It’s going to be fine,” Brett finally says. “We’ll be alright. It’s going to be fine, don’t worry.”</p>
<p>He’s absolutely terrified.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The crackdown is worse than anything Brett could ever have imagined.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading, have a very nice day and take care of yourself.</p>
<p>(It was never my plan to lull you into a false sense of security with talks of cute tiny dragons. I don’t know where you got this idea from.)</p>
<p>Serious talks though, alright? You know that if this makes you feel uncomfortable, you can say so, yeah? Also you can see, now, why I started to feel uneasy about the timing. </p>
<p>(It took a greater toll than expected and I’m not going to write something like this again, brace yourselves for more heart-dragons and other stupid stuff). </p>
<p>Again, take care of yourself.  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 24 *</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Brett isn’t even surprised when inspectors are at his door a couple of days after the end of the semester. It’s almost like he’s been expecting it. He’s been there before, after all. He knows how this goes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>After the rush of the last days of work and the unsettling stillness that came just after, it was obvious that something was going to happen. He was feeling too restless for anything good to happen. He’s even surprised that it took this long. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he’s been waiting for that all along, even though he’s glad that he got to finish the year. He’s enjoyed teaching more than he had thought he would. But the routine would have caught up with him in the end. It always does. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mr. Yang?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s vaguely tempted to answer ‘no’, that it’s not him. Just to see what would happen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We have a couple of questions for you. If you’d like to follow us…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He absolutely would not. But he’s not about to say. He isn’t stupid. Restless, but not reckless. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s tried really hard not to think about the last time this happened, over the course of the last ten years. It’s been like denial… kind of. If he didn’t think about it, then he could almost fool himself into thinking that it never happened. And if it didn’t happen… well… he never got to that part. But he’s tried really hard, and it kind of worked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For that reason, it’s extremely unsettling how familiar this still feels. It’s almost as if his brain has forgotten, but his body still remembers what it’s like, to be sitting in front of two people clearly intent on making him say things that they want to hear, no matter if true or not. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They start slowly, questioning him about students and the general atmosphere at the university these last couple of months, and he answers that he doesn’t know, that he hasn’t noticed anything, that he has no idea. Just like the last time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It gets more direct after the first hour, because they’re all tired of this weird dance around the facts. </em>
</p><p><em>He keeps saying no to everything. </em>Was he aware of anti-government propaganda distributed on campus? <em>No. </em>Has he noticed suspicious activities among students? <em>No. </em>Did he suspect some teachers to encourage rebellion?<em> No. </em></p><p>
  <em>It takes another hour or so before they get to the really personal stuff. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Was this a student of yours?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Did you ever meet with him in private?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He came for a private lesson every other week. Like most of my students.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Was there ever something suspicious about him?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Were you aware of his political activities?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He gets tired and thirsty and his brain gets muddled. He’s played this game before though, so he knows to keep it short and simple. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What was your relationship with Ms. Emerson?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She’s a colleague.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Was she a close friend? More?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“An acquaintance.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s not what we’ve heard.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s what it is.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s not the first time you’re involved with a dissident.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Well how about that. Took them long enough to get there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t know what you mean.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They pretend to look something up in a file, but Brett isn’t taken in by that. This is exactly like the last time. As much as he likes to pretend that he’s forgotten about it, he truly hasn’t. It was just locked away for his own sanity for a moment. Not anymore. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I think you know exactly what we mean. Any news of Mr. Chen’s whereabouts?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Haven’t heard that name for ten years.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s very sad. You’re telling us that you have no idea where he could be?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Like I said, it’s been ten years.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So you’ve had no contact with him in any way… Any idea what happened to him?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I kinda figured your lot had gotten to him.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t know what you mean by ‘our lot’, Mr. Yang. Aren’t we all part of the same lot? Anyway… Let’s go back to Ms. Emerson, then. Were you aware of her sympathies…” </em>
</p><p><em>He’s eventually let go, after a few more hours of this, with the promise of ‘</em>we’ll keep in touch’<em>. He’s pretty sure they will, yes. Every couple of days, until they get bored of this, or until Brett slips. Whichever happens first. He knows how this goes. He’s played this game before. </em></p><p>
  <em>He’s pretty exhausted when he gets home. He’s feeling dizzy, and his head spins. He’s pretty sure he’s just lost his job, too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He almost doesn’t notice, when the note rips under the door as he opens it. It takes a couple of minutes of just standing there and looking at the shredded paper, before Brett shakes himself and picks it up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s a music score, and when Brett gets past his initial surprise, he recognises it easily as Sarasate’s Navarra. When he turns it around, there’s two lines on the back. An address, and a time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And, at the bottom of the page, a drawing that looks like an ugly little spaceship.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello, thank you for reading :)<br/>*<br/>Thanks a lot for accompanying me through this one. It’s been a wild ride. I love you all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>* 13 *</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a good kid, Brett. You did your best,” Mrs. Chen says as she squeezes his hand, and out of all the things that Brett’s heard or seen in the last two weeks, this is what ends him. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Eddy’s mother, but her words break something in his chest, and somehow that was the last thing that was holding him together.</p><p>“There, there,” she says as she runs a hand through his hair, and she’s so much like her son that it hurts even more.</p><p>He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the things that he’s seen, a city covered in smoke and blood, so many hopes shattered in seconds. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to erase that from his memory.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, because somehow his best was not enough, it would never have been enough.</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>God, there’s so much of Eddy in his mother. He notices it now, and it’s the worst kind of pain. The wound’s still fresh, and even the shape of her eyes feels like a dagger to his heart. It’s unfair. He has no other words for it.</p><p>Eddy’s gone but Brett’s never thought about him more. He wishes they’d had more time, wishes things had been different, somehow, wishes they could have talked more. But they were just so caught up in pretending. Even once the repression started, even once people started disappearing, they were still playing that wonderful game of pretending. Pretending that there was a way this could end differently, pretending that Brett didn’t know how involved Eddy was, pretending like they didn’t both know that Eddy was going to be next.</p><p>Until Brett couldn’t pretend anymore, until he had to say it. ‘<em>They’re going to murder you, I’m going to find you dead in the street one day.’</em></p><p>And Eddy said nothing, because there was nothing left to say, because it was already too late, anyway, because Eddy’s friends and classmates had already started getting arrested, because nobody knew where they were or what had happened to them after that.</p><p>But a couple of days later, he woke up and there was a message on his voicemail, Eddy’s panicked voice telling him that he was going to be next, that he had to leave.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Brett says again, but Mrs. Chen only nods understandingly. “I wouldn’t ask, if I had another option.”</p><p>“It’s okay. I’m sure Eddy would want you to keep it. What would I do with it, anyway? It’s better if someone uses it, right? It was made for music, not to gather dust in some old woman’s house.”</p><p>He’s amazed by her strength, keeping it together when he’s there, falling apart at the seams, some dumb idiot incapable of keeping his composure after being roughened up a bit.</p><p>“I wouldn’t – I need a violin, for work,” he whispers it, like an apology.</p><p>“It’s all good. All good.”</p><p>He wishes he could talk to her more, but doesn’t want to risk it. He doesn’t want to risk anyone, anymore. He’d better leave.</p><p>Eddy had been right, in his message. He was always right, after all, so much cleverer than Brett, since day one.</p><p>It didn’t even take a few hours, after the message, for the police to be at his door, searching through his stuff, questioning him. <em>Where was Eddy? When was the last time he’d seen him? </em>He answered ‘I don’t know’ and ‘last week’, but somehow that wasn’t enough for them. He even played them the voice message, let them take his phone.</p><p>It didn’t suffice. They kept coming back, ransacking his apartment each time, smashed both his violin and the stupid viola that Eddy once gave him with vicious laughter. They kept bringing him in for questioning, one hour, two hours, six hours, eight hours, always the same questions, always the same answers. <em>I don’t know. I haven’t noticed. I have no idea. </em></p><p>He figures that they’ll get bored, at some point. All he needs is to keep giving the same answers and not falter. He doesn’t think that they can take anything more from him than what he’s already lost.</p><p>He wants Eddy back, but since that’s not happening, he doesn’t care about the rest.</p><p>“Would you – would you mind if I came to see you, sometimes?” he asks when he’s already at the door.</p><p>Eddy’s mother smiles kindly. “I would love that, dear.”</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Two in a day, oh yeah. Just plain ol’ pain, this one. I’m not even sorry.<br/>Just two more to go. Thank you for reading. </p><p>*</p><p>Since this is coming to an end, I thought I might share two alternate plotlines that could have seemed plausible, if this story hadn’t been about an authoritarian regime and an almost-revolution from the start. They occurred to me when I was trying to figure out if my storyline was easy to understand, and I found them funny (ahem).<br/>-	Jason’s fate in chapter 2 was a prefiguration of everything and Brett’s actually lost it due to stress and anxiety at university. Eddy never existed and it was just a figment of his imagination, made up to help him cope with the stress. He got help and that’s why he doesn’t see Eddy in the future. But that makes his life sad and miserable.<br/>-	Brett’s possessiveness turns into jealousy, and he actually killed Eddy, but no one could ever prove it. The cops are only trying to make him confess.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>* 25 *</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>It’s an old church.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett finds it easily enough. There, just past the corner, a few steps away from the square, snuggled between two ugly buildings, wooden door creaked open. It’s small but luminous inside, tall, tall walls with big glass windows, white marbles and painted frescoes, their colours pastel, faded with time. It’s quiet, too. A heavy silence. His footsteps reverberate in the empty space, echoes against walls, as he walks down the aisle. It must be empty, he thinks at first. </em>
</p><p><em>He thinks </em>‘why here?’ <em>as he takes a seat on a wobbly wooden pew, somewhere in the middle of the nave. A strange place for an even stranger meeting. </em></p><p>
  <em>But the note said…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It must be empty, he thinks at first, but it isn’t. In the choir, somewhat hidden by the remnants of the pulpit, there is a grand piano. At the piano, there is a man, quiet at first, still like one of the statues in the alcoves, his fingers barely hovering above the keyboard, not touching the keys. His clothing is patched and worn, and there is a five-day stubble on his cheeks, but Brett recognises him anyway. He recognises him because he used to be a soloist, before. World-class. Immense fame. Forgotten now, of course. But Brett remembers. He saw him on stage, ages ago, in another lifetime almost, sheer talent, pure brilliance, now just a distant memory. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>This man is not who he came to see, so Brett looks away, almost shy. Decline should be a private thing. He sags a bit on the pew, elbows on knees, face in hands. He’s exhausted, and vaguely wonders if he looks as old as he feels. In the choir, the pianist lightly drops his fingers on the keys. The first notes break the silence, clear, light, so light, floating like feathers. It’s Schubert’s Ave Maria. Brett hasn’t heard that piece in a long time. He doubts anybody has. </em>
</p><p>‘Maybe coming here was a mistake,’ <em>he thinks. </em></p><p>
  <em>Yet the note said…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The piece progresses and Brett lets himself enjoy the music, even if only for a moment. The steady left hand, the luminous melody, rising, the precise notes, breathtakingly beautiful, slightly held back for effect. The last notes linger in the air long after the piece has ended. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you think he misses it?” asks a voice to Brett’s right, and it’s Brett’s heart that misses a beat. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s too scared to look up, keeps his face hidden, so the voice continues. “He’s here every day. He plays for an hour and then leaves. Do you think he misses it?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Misses what?” Brett asks, a quiver in his voice. His hands drop to the sides, come to rest on the wooden bench. He’s still too scared to turn his head, though. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Performing. The public. The applause.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Every day.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the choir, the pianist has switched to Liszt’s Liebestraum. The notes tumble from his fingers with the same precision as all those years ago. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s a hand on top of Brett’s, now. Warm, steady, familiar still, even after all this time. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He glances right. Just one look. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you trust me?” Eddy asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett looks at Eddy and almost forgets how to answer. He has imagined this moment so many times in the past that he had almost given up hope that it would ever happen somewhere else than in his mind. But now Eddy’s here, and he doesn’t know what to say. He can barely comprehend that it’s real, that this isn’t one of his dreams. It’s almost too much, this, and his brain completely freezes. He wants… he wants time to examine every little detail of Eddy, relearn the shape of his face. Ten years… He wants to fill his brain with all the subtle and not so subtle changes in Eddy. It’s been so long, and Brett is suddenly very aware of the effects that the passage of time has had on him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Brett?” Eddy says softly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s almost afraid to speak, that his voice is finally going to betray him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I – you know I do. When did you-”</em>
</p><p><em>Eddy’s smile is sadder than Brett remembers. “I know you have questions. God, </em>I <em>have so many…”  He touches the side of Brett’s face with his index finger, near the corner of his eye, where little wrinkles have started to appear recently. “It’ll have to wait, though. We need to leave.” </em></p><p>
  <em>As if on cue, the pianist ends his piece and closes the lid of the piano. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Come,” Eddy says, and he takes Brett’s hand. “Let’s go before he notices us.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s still the same, after all these years, the feeling of these fingers around his. It still feels like home, and it has absolutely no right to. Brett wonders if Eddy feels it too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>If Brett needed one reminder that there is nothing normal about the situation they’re finding themselves in, Eddy’s paranoia as he guides Brett outside would be it. Brett’s pretty sure that they walk the same streets two, three times, they take turns and alleyways that he didn’t know existed, wound their way through small streets and foreign neighbourhoods. He has no idea where they’re going, but Eddy’s holding his hand, so he follows. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>He doesn’t know what to expect, but an old apartment building is not it. He’d thought… well, he doesn’t know what he’d thought, it has all been too sudden. But the normality of the setting creates an unsettling cognitive dissonance. The tall grey concrete with the little communal garden in between the buildings, the swings where children are playing, the red and pink flowers timidly growing between the weeds in the large wooden planters, the old woman on the bench who gives them a friendly smile, it’s all too normal. Life going on in these circumstances almost makes no sense. The worst of all, maybe, is that this isn’t even a fifteen minutes’ walk from his own home. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The apartment is bare to the point of asceticism. If it weren’t for the glass on the coffee table and the coat hanging from the back of a chair, the place wouldn’t have looked different if it had been vacated fifty years ago. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett doesn’t understand anything, but he figures he’ll just follow, see what happens – funny, he thinks, how it usually used to be the other way around. But his brain doesn’t have the capacity to look further than the next second right now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sorry,” Eddy says, about nothing in particular. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It feels the same and completely different at the same time, like it’s a stranger standing in front of Brett, guiding him towards the couch. In Brett’s dreams, things went back to what they used to be when they met again, but in real life time isn’t that kind. He wants to extend his hand and touch, just touch, but the distance prevents him from it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You have questions,” Eddy says as he pulls a chair to sit in front of Brett. It’s a statement, not a question.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He has so many that he doesn’t know where to start. He’s still exhausted, from his interrogation, from the lack of sleep, from everything that’s happened in the last decade. Thinking’s not easy. There are so many things to talk about, so he tries to sort them between important and unimportant. </em>
</p><p><em>Eddy’s back. </em>Important. <em>When did he get back? </em>Unimportant. <em>He’s looking different. </em>Unimportant. <em>He wears glasses now. </em>Unimportant. <em>He knows Brett needs his help. </em>Important. <em>What happens now? </em>Important. <em>Does Eddy – does Eddy still love him?</em></p><p>
  <em>“I have questions, yeah. When – when did you start wearing glasses?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy’s eyes widen and he laughs, childlike, and Brett’s brain hurts from the familiarity of it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Four years ago. You like?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I – it’s different,” he sees Eddy’s smile falter a little, corrects himself, “yeah, I like. You’re very pretty…”, watches with wonder as Eddy’s eyes light up again. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You look older,” Eddy remarks, looking at his own hands. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, fuck you.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy chuckles – so, so familiar again. “No, it’s good, I like it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The silence between them stretches to the point of discomfort. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So,” Brett begins, “when did you get back in the country? And how?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The same way I got out, by ship. And when? When I learned that my mother was sick. I needed to see her before… I – it’s nice, what you did for her. I think she liked you more than me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I liked her.” Brett swallows. “She kept me going, you know. She… I’m sorry for your loss. How come you’re still here, though? It’s been three years… They’re still looking – it’s not safe.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I couldn’t leave,” Eddy says, and then pauses for a long time. “I came to see your orchestra once. You were great-”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well that was dumb. Hand yourself over the next time, why don’t you?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy shrugs, eyes downcast. “You looked happy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You mean, up to the point where I lost my job?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I didn’t see that one coming.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Neither did I, mate. You’ve been keeping tabs on me? Seems rather unfair.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I just – I just watched from afar. You haven’t moved…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, well, how else could you have found me, hey?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy watches for a long time. “I missed your birthdays,” he says after a while. “I didn’t want to risk it, once I was back. Did you get it? Did you know it was me?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett wants … he doesn’t know what he wants. To touch him, yes. But there’s this distance between them and he doesn’t know how to breach it, doesn’t know how to reach out.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“After the second year, yeah. Can we- can we go back to what’s happening now?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, sorry.” Eddy looks defeated, like he’d rather talk about the past than the future, and Brett doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t want to think about what that means. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Do you know about what happened, at the university, I mean?” Brett asks. If only he could take Eddy’s hand. Then maybe… </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve heard,” Eddy says, looking down at the ground. His hands are shaking a bit. If Brett takes them between his own, he thinks, maybe he’ll be able to stop the trembling. But he doesn’t know if Eddy would want that, so he doesn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry about your…” Eddy hesitates, “… girlfriend?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Not you too. Where the fuck did you get that idea from?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I just assumed. Since they came for you straight after. And she was nice. Funny…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, a lot of things, but not funny…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“She used to be.” When he sees the frown on Brett’s face, Eddy elaborates. “We were in Uni together. You wouldn’t have known. You didn’t care about first years.” He shakes his head, lost in his thoughts for a moment. “I never told you, but her father’s connections probably saved us both. I wouldn’t have known, without him, that they were coming…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It seems like you haven’t told me a lot of things.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I wanted you to be safe… It didn’t work…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve been through this before.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy shakes his head. “They’re not going to give up. It’s like, dude, you keep mixing up with the wrong people.” He has a little laugh, but it’s bitter. “It’s not gonna stop. They’ll keep coming until something sticks, or just, you know, make something up.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So what then?” Brett asks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can get you out of the country. I know people… I owe you that much anyway. My turn, yeah? Finally start repaying all these favours…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett takes a deep breath. “Out of the country… with you?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If you want to. I know -  there’s a place I know… it has a little garden, and the neighbours have a huge orange cat, and there’s an orchestra in town, and a music school for children, and…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“… sounds nice. Is there… is there also… do you have someone…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“There’s no one. I told you, didn’t I?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*        *</em>
</p><p>
  <em>*</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There is a garden. And the neighbour’s orange cat has claimed the driveway as its sunbathing spot. There is also an old piano that’s too old to ever be tuned properly, but he still plays on it anyway, just to throw off Eddy’s perfect pitch. The orchestra in town is small and mismatched, but they’re having more fun than any orchestra Brett’s ever seen, and the children in the music school never listen when he tells them to practice, but sometimes there’s one that’s really passionate and it changes everything. Brett still doesn’t sleep well, can’t shake memories out his brain, faces of people he’s never going to see again, places and things that he’s missing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>They keep bumping into each other. The years have created a distance that doesn’t seem to be going away, and they’ve lost the awareness that they had of each other’s presence. Brett keeps tripping and knocking into Eddy’s limbs, keeps complaining about his fingers being in the way, until he realises that what he mistook for accidental touches were actually deliberate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When confronted with it, Eddy breaks immediately. He folds himself around Brett in a way that feels familiar but also different, somehow. Brett has lived with the memory of Eddy for so long that it’s painful, to compare it with reality. They’ve changed, and not only physically. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddy notices it too. “It’s not the same,” he says, voice too quiet. “It doesn’t feel the same.” As soon as he says it, he starts crying. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re a big baby,” Brett says before he can stop himself. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There’s an offended huff coming from somewhere near his left ear. “Don’t call me a baby.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Too late, baby. I’ve been calling you that in my head since the moment we met.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A wet chuckle. “I thought it would be the same.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“We’ve grown old, hey…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re smaller than I remember,” Eddy says.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, you’re just as dumb as I remember, so you see, some things don’t change.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brett pulls away, and wipes Eddy’s tears with his fingertips, traces the contours of his cheekbones. “This still feels familiar.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah. What about this?” He asks, and then he slides his hands behind Eddy’s neck and pulls him down to relearn the shape of his mouth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For the first time in forever, Brett falls asleep easily that night, Eddy’s weight still a little foreign on top of him, with shapes and angles slightly different and unfamiliar, but familiar warmth, familiar smell, familiar voice in his ears, whispering familiar words. </em>
</p><p>“I’m never going to fall in love with anyone else.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here we go, this is where it ends.<br/>Thank you for your time, take care of yourselves and enjoy your week.<br/>Imma go and write something nice for the notes of the last chapter before I post it, and then we can definitely say goodbye to these iterations of B&amp;E.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>* 12 *</p><p> </p><p>It’s a dark night.</p><p>They’re walking towards the docks and Eddy’s holding onto Brett’s hand like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.</p><p>It’s so quiet, just the slow clapping of the water in the distance, and the murmurs of human activities, too far away for them to care. After all the noise of the last few days, it feels almost empty. They had almost learned to live with the chaos, with the stress and the fears. The silence and the cold feel foreign.</p><p>“It’s this one,” Brett says, and he stops.</p><p>Eddy nods, lips tight. Even before exams and competitions, Brett hasn’t seen him that exhausted. Even though Brett had thought that there was nothing left to break, it rips his chest open a little more to see him like that.</p><p>The cold is nipping at his fingertips, and Brett slowly feels the numbness creep up his hand, up his arm, to his chest. The light from the streetlamp is too orange and the shadows it casts are too long and nothing feels real. How could it?</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eddy whispers, and he’s said it so many times in the last hour that Brett doesn’t answer. He thinks his voice would betray him if he tried.</p><p>“I feel like a coward,” Eddy adds.</p><p>“What for? Staying alive?” Brett shakes his head. Out of all the things Eddy could think about...</p><p>“Leaving.”</p><p>“You’re of no use to anyone if you’re dead.” It’s surreal to be saying these words, but it’s true. “You said it yourself, if you don’t leave the country now…”</p><p>“I hate this.”</p><p>“I know. It won’t be for long, right? It’s just until things here have calmed down…”</p><p>It’s entirely unfair, how Eddy manages to still look good under the harsh orange light, with wet tears and spiky lashes. Brett thought he knew everything that there was to know about his face, but there’s still so much that he hasn’t seen. He’s desperately trying to memorize it now, but there will never be enough time.</p><p>Something moves on the nearest ship.</p><p>“It’s time,” Brett says.</p><p>“You’ll thank your uncle…” Eddy says, voice hollow.</p><p>“Yeah.” There’s so much he still needs to say, but he’s lost his voice and words fail him.</p><p>“Fuck. I owe you so much. We’ll add this one to the list, hey?”</p><p>‘There is no list’, Brett wants to say, ‘there never was any list. Everything I ever did, every dumb favour you asked, I was more than happy to do it, because it only meant that I got to spend more time with you, because the truth is that I fell in love with you the moment I got to know you.’</p><p>“We’ll add this one to the list,” he says instead.</p><p>They don’t say goodbye because they’ve already said everything that they wanted to say. Any more would just feel like salt on the wounds now. Brett pretends that he doesn’t see that Eddy’s crying. Eddy pretends that he hasn’t noticed the trembling of Brett’s hands.</p><p>“You’ll go see my mum?” Eddy asks. “You’ll take care of her?”</p><p>“I promise.”</p><p>And just like that it’s over, just like that Brett lets go of Eddy’s hand and watches as he leaves, before he goes home alone, feeling tired and numb and empty.</p><p>He barely sleeps that night, and when his phone rings at four in the morning, he doesn’t pick up. It’s what they’d agreed on. After what feels like forever, the call goes to voicemail.</p><p>Brett stares at the ceiling, drifting in and out of sleep, until the sun rises and he’s forced out of bed by harsh knocks on the door.</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ta daaa, it’s over. <br/>It’s been all sorts of crazy, huge fun, and a little nerve-wracking. </p><p>Thank you so much for sticking with me through this, for reading and commenting and for all the support. It’s been a pleasure to share this with you. </p><p>I wanted to write a lengthy, detailed note explaining more about the story, but I can’t find the words and my brain has just given up on me, I fear. <br/>I have no words other than to express my overwhelming gratitude. You know from previous notes that I had my doubts about this one. You guys got me through it. Again. Thank you so much. It’s been a pleasure to write and it’s all thanks to you. </p><p>Have a nice day, and take care of yourself &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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